


Cut My Life Into Pieces

by Pinchetta



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Anxiety, Blood, Crying, Cuddles, Cutting, Depressed Frank, Depression, Drug Use, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Music, Pain, Panic Attacks, Pills, Sad, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Tears, The Black Parade, Triggers, Vomiting, drunk, razor blades, self-injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-10 04:36:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2011137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinchetta/pseuds/Pinchetta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On The Black Parade 2007 tour a depressed Frank is losing himself in blood and booze to escape the storms in his head...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (TRIGGER WARNING: If you self-harm or are easily triggered please be careful reading this. You are vulnerable. Look after yourself. Take care. xx)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The first part of this first chapter is in first person letter format. The rest of the story is a regular third person narrative. x**

“Dear Nobody c/o Fuck All,  
I need to write some of this shit down somewhere and a letter seems like the best way to do it. Who knows maybe it'll help me think things out.

There are plenty of names for what I do, y'know, but none of them describe how I feel when I do it. That surge of relief, that breathing space and trance of oblivion before the guilt and shame and pain set in. The term “self-harm” is too clinical and detached for me. It sounds like it was made up by doctors who never felt the need to butcher or burn their own skin just to feel alive or calm or normal and I don't think those creeps in white coats could ever understand my mind because even I don't understand it.

My urges come and go, some months they fade and sometimes they come flooding back so fast I have to punch the nearest wall wherever I am and whoever is watching just to get it out. All the other stuff, the gorier stuff, I do in secret. I don't want anyone to see that shit, not ever. It's none of their fucking business.

Back in high school when I was a bully's punching bag I cut or burned almost daily and often at stupid times like on a crowded school bus or in the middle of a house-party no one invited me to, or in the boys bathroom after another long walk through locker-lined corridors with bruises on my face and tears hiding in my throat. I wore long sleeves every day and eventually got enough tattoos to cover the most visible scars. Everybody stared through me like I wasn’t even there.

Life got better for almost everyone after High School though, including me, for a while. I didn't cut again for ages after joining MCR and when the band really took off life was pretty incredible. For the first time in my shortass life I felt at home in my own skin and while we drank and sang and travelled and got inked and moshed and fucked and laughed and played beautiful music several years went by without me picking up a razor for anything other than shaving. It was a wonderful feeling and as we got more famous and our singer Gerard – my best friend - recovered from addictions way more serious than mine ever were, we grew up together on the road and I watched the sun set over each new city with genuine happiness in my heart and blood. I lived for our music and I could cope with any little problems that came up because the other guys and my girl back home in New Jersey were always there to rely on. I could do anything. I felt fucking invincible.

Until last month.

Last month the only girl I ever loved got bored of waiting for me to finish touring and broke up with me over the fucking phone. I couldn't take that punch to the gut, even with my new sunny attitude. I stumbled and couldn't get up again and to be honest I didn't want to. It was easier to wallow. All the colours drained out of the sunsets and every morning I woke up more tired then when I'd gone to sleep. While the bus was moving I hid in my bunk for hours alone and listened to the angriest and saddest tracks on my ipod because the other stuff just didn’t make me feel anything anymore.

When I went outside – hiding my face from the fans - I saw bitterness and exhaustion and addiction and filth in every city we visited and I got so homesick it hurt. The world outside my mind felt hazy and distant like I was trapped behind glass walls and I couldn’t live in the moment anymore or feel anything positive at all. I still walked in the world but I was separate somehow, living outside of everyone else, and it was cold and dark there with just me and my thoughts. An angry, miserable blackhole began to grow in my chest and it's still growing and I can’t stop it.

My world has shifted and even music doesn't give me any comfort or joy these days and I think that hurts me inside more than anything else. Sleep is my new best friend because it means I can shut everything out for a while and be empty and unconscious.

Rage and pain and sadness floods my guts every day and I scream into pillows and punch the walls but it doesn’t help. Little things like getting out of bed to take a shower or buy food are too much of an effort so I do nothing all day until the evenings when I switch to chugging beers and red bull and perform like a trained monkey onstage for the screaming happy fans. I've been sleeping more and more but I'm still tired and all the dirt and emotions inside me explode in my aching stomach and make me snappy, angry and stressed because I don’t let them out. I am numb and calm on the outside but burning and shaking within, trapped like a lion in a cage. I am stealing my own breath away.

Gerard and the others have noticed a change in me and they don’t like it but I don't care. Their constant questions – “Are you okay, man?” “Why so down, Frankie?” – are annoying and make me feel worse because I don’t have any answers for them. I tell them I'm fine just to get them off my back and then I go and get so drunk they start avoiding me. Every night on the tour I run and jump around onstage with my guitar until my blood pumps battery acid but I still feel hollow and sad when it's over and I know pills and alcohol can't keep me going forever. My sleep fills with nightmares but it's still a welcome break from the shit outside my bedcovers – all the twisted, pointless, blurry shit of the world that makes me sick inside and drives me fucking crazy - and I want to burst into tears at least ten times a day but something dark and heavy sitting in my chest and in my brain won’t let me cry. Not ever. I can’t feel anything like I used to.

I miss Her all the time of course, but that's not why I'm so depressed. She was just the trigger. This defective part of my mind has lurked inside me since birth like an emotional death-sentence. It came out in high school and it's coming out now but this time I have no parents or boundaries around to hold me back from doing whatever I like to cope with the pain. My empty bones feel heavier by the day. I am a one-man weapon of self-destruction and I don't give a fuck.

Last week I finally broke down and shed blood when banging my fists and head against the wall didn't do the business. I snapped the plastic safe-guard on my razor apart until the little blades fell out and cut a long stinging wound through the tattoo of nautical stars on my left arm. It fucking hurt and I finally felt something real and sharp that wasn’t just inside my head or in my stomach for once, and I needed to feel it so badly. I needed the distraction and the release and the relief was overwhelming. But that one cut and quick shot of pain wasn't enough. It’s never enough. How can I escape myself? I can't.

The new scars are butchering my tattooed skin and the bloodstains are getting harder to hide even though pretty much all of my clothes are black. I’m in love with something that could kill me and I don't care. Self-harm is my self-medication to survive.

I'm gonna tear this letter up now, probably burn it or something. It hasn't really helped but whatever. Thanks for listening, Nobody.  
Love  
Frank.”

****  
"Hey, is that you, Frankie? You've been in there for ages, what are you even doing?"  
"Gee? I thought you were...I mean I'm...nothing."  
“Are you jerking off?”  
“No!”  
"Then get out, I need to take a piss."  
"Yeah, okay, hang on a sec."

Sighing heavily, Frank turns on the taps in the tiny washroom sink and watches the red water drain away down the grimy plughole. Chewing on his lip as Gerard bangs impatiently on the locked door behind him, he washes his hands and presses a small wad of paper towels against his bleeding forearm. Flinching with pain, he gingerly pulls the sleeve of his hoodie down over the sting and the mess he's made and curls his tattooed fingers around the cuff to make sure it doesn't ride up again and expose his sins to the world. Turning off the taps with his other hand, he scoops up his lighter and razorblade - stained sticky red – from the empty soap dish and pockets them both before wiping the dish clean again with another towel. Glancing frantically around for any other signs of what he was doing in here that need to be hidden, he jumps when he hears another knock on the door.  
"Frank, come on!"  
Sniffing hard, Frank glances at himself in the mirror over the sink and gloomily notes that he looks like shit. Sighing again, he dry-swallows a couple of aspirin from the bottle in his pocket and unlocks the door.

Gerard is standing in the cramped corridor outside wearing an old t-shirt and black sweat pants. His black hair is messy from sleep and his cheeks are lined with pink pillow creases. "Finally," he mutters grumpily when Frank emerges, "There are other people on this bus besides you, you know."  
"Sorry," Frank mumbles, sliding past his friend into the corridor that runs the length of the My Chemical Romance tour bus, "Toilet's all yours. I'll get out of your way."  
"Wait Frankie, hang on," Gerard adds, his voice softening with concern, "Are you okay? You look sort of out of it."  
"I'm fine," Frank lies, forcing a smile. A trickle of warm wetness is still running down his arm under his sleeve. Fuck. "Really I'm fine," he says again, turning away.  
"Hey," Reaching out, Gerard grabs Frank's arm to stop him leaving and Frank gasps, terrified that Gerard is going to feel the damp of his blood through the black fabric. Snatching his arm away he hides it protectively behind his back and glares at his friend, his heart pounding.  
Gerard looks startled and a little confused. "Sorry, Frank. I didn't mean to-"  
"Just leave me alone!" Frank snaps, "I'm okay, Gee, really. Go piss."

Storming off down the bus, Frank shoves open the door and jumps out into an empty parking lot, kicking at the rain-slicked asphalt. It's a little before noon and the band's road-side home is parked at a service station a few miles into South Dakota. The rest of the band and the small group of friends and crew who ride with them are out making use of the station's fast-food joints and shops so there is no one else around to bother him right now which is just as well. He'd figured Gerard was in the station too, getting coffee or something, and he could have the bus - and the washroom - to himself for a while.  
So much for that.

Shutting the door behind him, Frank folds his arms over his skinny chest, ignoring the wet sting soaking through his sleeve, and looks up at the gray sky. Thunder rumbles darkly in the distance and the cold air reeks of motor oil and fat fryers. Shaking his dyed black hair out of his eyes, he glances back at the large blue bus, his heart still racing but Gerard hasn't followed him. He's safe for now.

Trying to calm down, Frank yanks his hood up and walks quickly into the service station, ignoring everyone he sees and heading straight for the men's restroom. Locking himself in a cubicle, he sits down on the toilet lid and drags up his sleeve, smearing blood up to his elbow and takes a slow quivering breath. That was a close call. Scowling at the mess, he reaches out to rip some toilet paper from the cracked plastic holder on the wall and realizes his hands are shaking. "Fuck." Clenching his trembling fingers into fists he tries to breathe more deeply, sweating under his hoodie even though it's cold everywhere today. Gerard is one of his best friends. Hiding this from him was never going to be easy.

Swallowing hard, Frank takes some toilet paper and starts to mop up his arm until a sudden surge of nausea grips his stomach and the dingy cubicle sways to one side as he lurches sideways, sinking dizzily to his knees on the icy tiles. With stress and headaches pounding behind his eyes, he wrenches open the toilet lid and starts puking stomach acid and redbull into the porcelain bowl. He can't remember the last time he ate solid food.

When his quivering guts are just dry-heaving because there's nothing left to throw up, Frank sinks back against the toilet wall and cradles his head in his hands, panting shuddering breaths as the world slowly stops spinning. Beyond the privacy of his cubicle, another door screeches open and closed and the sudden gush of tap water signals the presence of another human being. Sliding slowly up the wall to his feet, Frank wraps toilet paper around his shredded arm and tugs his sleeve back into place, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before flushing the toilet clean and stepping outside.

Bob is standing at the restroom sinks watching Frank exit his cubicle in the mirror with curious blue eyes.  
"Hey Frank. You okay dude?"  
"I'm fine," Frank mumbles for what seems like the hundredth time today, "I just got a little sick. I dunno, maybe something I ate."  
"Oh. Sure.”

Forcing his trembling legs to carry him across the room like they're supposed to, Frank slowly washes his hands at the sink and grabs a handful of paper towels, very aware that Bob hasn't left yet and is just standing there watching him with the same puzzled expression.  
"Something I can help you with?” he asks rudely, drying his hands.  
“I dunno, do you want me to get you some Pepto Bismol or something from the store?" the drummer asks hesitantly.  
"No, it's alright," Frank sighs, shuffling towards the door, “Thanks though.”

All he can think about now is the concert tonight and how he's going to have to wear out his overused happy mask again and find enough energy to perform The Black Parade. Right now all he wants to do is crawl into his bunk and go back to sleep, no questions asked, but Bob follows him out of the restrooms and suggests they go and buy coffee and donuts for everyone. This is going to be a long day.


	2. Chapter 2

It's nearly 3am the morning after a hellish night before and Frank lies sleepless in his bunk staring up at the scratched base of the bed above his own. The sleeves and cuffs of his hoodie are stiff and shiny with drying blood, the pale grey fabric stained and sticky. Both arms this time. Too much for sure but he didn’t have time to find anything to stop the bleeding. After everything blew up and everyone started yelling at him he panicked and fled in here to his bunk, his tiny sanctuary of safety that smells like him and feels almost like home. A blanket and a curtain to separate him from everybody and everything else in the world tonight. There's no first aid kit in here but at least no one followed him and hey the bleeding’s almost stopped now.

Despite the numbing effect of his recent diet of booze and painkillers he still hurts, inside and out, and to put it bluntly it sucks. It sucks a lot and he's so tried of feeling this way. He’s played around with pain his whole life of course, making it his friend and an accomplice to fun: tattoos, piercings, hurling himself off stages and into drum kits: all of it hurts. But this isn’t the good kind of pain anymore. This is about bottling things up and carving a release out of his own flesh. It's about control and risk and being able to fake a smile and fucking breathe.

Seeing his blood trickling away helps him know he's still alive and real and in control of that life, no matter what circumstances might come his way. As the blood flows out it seems to carry some of the suffocating stress and anxiety and rot out of him too and every drop is another guilty second of relief from feeling completely overwhelmed.

After puking in the service station toilet he slept for most of the day and didn't eat a thing so by the time sound check and the show came around he was already light-headed and running on caffeine and not much else. During the band's loud aggressive performance of the song 'House Of Wolves' he actually fell over from dizziness near the end but no one seemed to notice. He often played guitar on his knees or lying his back during 'House of Wolves’ so this was nothing new. No one saw the truth. 

During intermission, when the band left the stage to change out of their Black Parade uniforms into regular clothes to play hits from their back catalogue, Frank hid in the dressing room toilet to change in privacy with no one to look at his scars. As he dragged off the too-hot Parade jacket and yanked a thin grey hoodie over his sweaty head, he could still hear the noise from the arena – brought to his ears by tiny speakers embedded in the walls - and the excited audience were screaming and chanting for him and the others to return to the stage. Over their ecstatic cries the song ‘Blood’ was being piped loudly through the sound system and it made him feel proud and sick at the same time.

The show ended late and after forcing himself through the rest of the set and half-heartedly smashing his microphone during the finale, Frank felt exhausted and more miserable than ever. He went straight back to the tour bus on his own, skipping a meet-and-greet with the fans with the excuse that he felt sick because he really couldn’t handle faking smiles for anyone right now, no matter how much he cared about them. 

Shutting himself in the bus washroom again, he sat down in the shower and rolled up the sweat-soaked sleeve of the hoodie he’d worn onstage. With adrenaline still pumping in his veins and a migraine throbbing behind his eyes, he whipped out his lighter and a double-edged razorblade and quickly burned the stained metal with the sterilising flame, desperate to slash it through his skin. He needed this so much he was almost in tears. As bad as it was and as good as it felt, he needed it now more than ever like an addict craves a fix. Playing concerts used to make him feel amazing and on top of the world but tonight he had only felt nauseous and empty and that made him so sad he wanted to cry with loss but he still couldn’t shed a single tear. All he had now were these smeared shower walls, his sweating skin and an ugly blade.

The razor was halfway down his right forearm with a dozen crimson slashes behind it and a hundreds splashes of red on the shower tiles already from his left arm when the washroom door suddenly sprang open. “Frank? Ohmigod what are you doing?!”

It was Mikey. Why did it have to be Mikey? The bassist took a long, horrified look at where Frank sat cowering in shame and shock in the shower and then began yelling almost hysterically for his brother, “Gerard! Gerard, get in here!”  
Not that Frank blamed him - he would have probably done the same thing when confronted with something this unexpected and terrible. Of course Mikey called for help. Lord knows, Frank needs it. But not like this.

Gerard and Ray both came charging up to the washroom door and this was pretty much when the screaming began. Voices overlapping each other in a chorus of upset and horror...  
“Mikey, what’s wrong? What_?”  
“Frank!”  
“Frankie?”  
“Oh fuck...”  
“Frank, what the hell?!”

Frank doesn’t remember much after that. Somehow he snapped out of his stunned paralysis and dropped the razor before jumping to his feet and bolting through his friends where they crowded in the doorway, twisting out of Ray’s frantic grasp and ignoring Gerard’s pleas to stop. Running down the bus he made it to the sleeping area and dove sobbing and shaking into his bunk, pulling the curtain shut and shrinking back against the wall with the cuffs of his bloody sleeves scrunched up in his trembling fingers and his hands pressed over his ears to block out the noise of the fight he knew was coming. How could he have been so careless and not locked the door? This wasn’t happening, oh god this wasn’t happening!

Three pairs of running footsteps thundered towards him and Frank squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the curtain to be whipped aside and his sanctuary to be broken…but then another voice joined the chorus. Brian. The young tour manager must have stepped onto the bus in the middle of all of this chaos and intercepted Mikey, Gerard and Ray before they could reach the bunks. Sliding his bloodstained hands off his ears and down his sweaty cheeks, Frank heard Brian asking them what’s wrong and Gerard explaining in a halting, hurt voice and then Mikey whispering something else before Brian somehow calmed everyone down, called out the door for Bob, and told everyone to give Frank some space – after all he obviously ran away and hid because he wants to be alone right? There was some more hushed talk for a while, too quiet for Frank to understand, and Brian ordered the others off the bus and shut the door with a dull slam.  
Muffled voices sounded outside, occasionally raised in anger but then getting further and further away until there was only silence. 

Frank curled up miserably on his blankets, still bleeding, his hands shaking, and tried to think of something to tell the guys when they inevitably came back looking for him. How could he explain this to them when they had no idea what went on inside his head? Hours passed and the bus remained empty as midnight came and went and the wintery dawn slowly approached.

It is now 4am the morning after the hellish night before, and Frank is still staring up at the empty bunk above his own. His arms are slowly scabbing over but he feels ripped apart and humiliated for everyone to stare at and pity and judge. He’s turned the spotlight on himself now and it’s all his fault. There’s no one else to blame. As he finally falls asleep from sheer exhaustion he doesn’t feel numb anymore, just afraid.

***  
When dawn comes Frank wakes with a dry mouth and blurry head and tries to remember why he feels so nervous and shitty. Dull spikes of pain are dancing in his arms and his entire body feels stiff and cold, the mattress too hard under his legs and back. His face is wet and itchy under his eyes and he can't remember how long he's been sleeping. Rolling wearily onto his side and sitting up a little, he shakes off a wave of dizziness and glances down at the bed. “Oh god.”  
There is blood everywhere. Hours of restless sleep have caused his deepest cuts from last night to re-open again and again and now both the bed sheets and his clothes are stained with dark patches of red. Staring in surprise at the sheer amount of blood – did he really cut this deep? - his first thought isn’t about how he might have endangered his health but how he’s going to hide this mess from everyone else on the bus. But then again they all know about his secret now don’t they. Fuck.

Sitting up a little more while his head aches in protest, Frank listens hard to his surroundings but over his own tired breathing he can’t hear anything at all. The bus is silent. No running engine or voices or bleeping laptops. Nothing. Where did everybody sleep last night? Despite his desperate desire to stay hidden, he feels a small stab of self-pity when he realizes that everyone pretty much abandoned last night without stopping to check if he was okay.

Rubbing his sore eyes with bloodstained fingers he notices his hands are shaking. Rows of wide moist cuts, gunky with clotting blood, are burning and shivering in his arms and wrists. His dry mouth tastes like metal and everything in his bunk smells like sweat and iron. A wave of nausea sears his stomach and he feels dizzy again and unbearably faint and sick. Ducking his head between his knees, he lets his black hair fall over his eyes and tries to breathe deeply and swallow the nausea but it doesn't work. Oh man he really needs to puke! Throwing back the curtain on his bunk, Frank swings his legs out into the small corridor beyond and feels a rush of cold air hit his skin. Cold air? Someone’s opened the tour bus door...

“Frankie?”  
It’s Gerard but Frank only glimpses a blurry snapshot of his friend – wide hazel eyes and the shadow of black clothes – before dizziness takes over and he’s suddenly lying on the carpet watching the world grey out around him.  
“Frank!”  
Gerard is a like ghost in the grey, only outlines and shadows, too plastic-looking and fuzzy, like an old cartoon, and he’s moving so slowly... Frank closes his eyes on the confusing sight and lets a warm numbness wash over his body.  
“Open your eyes, Frank. Wake up!”  
“Yeah,” he mumbles, weakly pushing Gerard’s plastic hands away from his face, “I am awake…”  
“Then open your eyes!”  
Tasting sweat and acid, Frank opens his eyes and sees Ghost-Gerard kneeling over him looking frantic and terrified. “Jesus, Frank what did you do? You’re fucking covered in blood!”  
“I don’t feel so good,” Frank groans as another surge of dizzy nausea tramples through his skinny body, “I think I'm gonna barf...”  
“Alright, come on,” Gerard says, grabbing his younger friend under the arms and pulling him to his feet.

The singer drags Frank down the empty bus to the washroom and sits him down in front of the toilet. Frank slumps over the porcelain bowl with his eyes closed, damp hair falling in his face, and spits up a little pill-water and snot. He hasn’t eaten anything for nearly two days.  
Gerard hovers around him worriedly, making him sit down against the wall and handing him a glass of something. Frank takes the drink without looking at it and sips, coughing on the sour taste.  
“Ugh, what is that?”  
“Just orange juice,” Gerard says anxiously, “It’s from the fridge.”  
“It doesn’t taste right,” Frank sighs, drinking it anyway as part of him wishes that he could throw up properly because then he might feel better. Gerard takes the empty glass and puts it aside.  
“Do you still feel like you’re gonna pass out? Shit, Frankie what were you trying to do? You could have cut an artery something. Lemme call an ambulance."  
“No! Don't,” Frank begs, shivering in his blood-stained clothes, "I can't handle that, please Gee, it's not as bad as it looks."  
“Yeah it kinda is.”  
“No, please don't call anyone.”

Biting his lip, Frank blinks away a few shameful tears and looks despondently around the tiny room, feeling stupid and miserable and angry at himself. It smells like cigarettes and drain-water in here and the shower is still stained with his blood. It wasn't supposed to turn out this way. “I’m gonna be alright,” he tells Gerard shakily, forcing the words out, “I don’t want you to think...I mean, this isn’t a suicide thing. I would never do that. I just... I dunno. Please don't make this into a big deal!”  
“Will you let me fix up your arms at least?” Gerard asks quietly, pulling a First Aid kit out from under the sink, "I think you need proper stitches but we do have some paper sutures here, y'know, like for bad cuts." Too tired to argue, Frank just nods and takes off his hoodie, grimacing as the thin fabric sticks to his skin and pulls out the partially-formed scabs, re-opening the wounds once again.

When the hoodie is off and Gerard starts getting out bandages and antiseptic, Frank finds himself struggling to keep from crying and he almost laughs at the irony. For the last few weeks he’s been too numb or too sad to cry - so much that it scared him - but now that he's actually on the verge of bursting into tears he doesn’t want to. Not right now, not in front of Gerard. Looking up at the ceiling he screws his eyes shut until the tears are gone and soon enough the urge to cry is gone too.

“We've checked into the old hotel across the street,” Gerard rambles nervously as he cleans Frank’s broken skin, “Brian said you needed some time alone and everybody should calm down separately but I had to come back and check on you. I was so worried I couldn’t sleep and now it's morning already. I'm sorry we left you for so long, man, we didn't know you were this badly hurt and I’m really really sorry I got mad at you last night. I didn't wanna scare you off, Frank, that's the last thing I wanted. I was just…shocked I guess. We all were. I’m sorry.”  
Frank nods faintly, resting his head against the wall and listening to the sluggish rhythm of his heartbeat as it pulses through his drained body.

I am alive. I am alive. I AM alive… so why do I feel so dead?

Gerard is still talking: “Remember when I told you I used to hurt myself in high school? I was so lonely and sick of all the fucked up cliques and it was an escape I guess, like my art, but I never did anything this serious. It sounds weird but it made me feel special in a twisted sort of way, like I was the only member of a secret underground society or something. I always did it alone, hiding, but I think deep down I wanted somebody to figure out what I was doing because it was so central to my life and got me through so many bad days I figured it would be obvious to everyone. I guess I wanted to see people’s reactions, to see if they thought I was as disgusting as I felt. I wanted to be helped or comforted or even just screamed at, I didn’t mind as long as somebody cared enough to notice I was hurting. The joke was on me though because it turns out that most people are too wrapped up in their own worries and pain to pay attention to anyone else's.”  
“What's your point, Gee?” Frank asks warily, wincing as his friend tapes a pad of clean white gauze around his arm.  
“My point is you left the door unlocked last night,” Gerard replies, gazing steadily at his face, “And that was a pretty dumb thing to do if you didn’t want us to find out what you were doing in here, Frankie. Was there maybe a part of you that wanted us to know?”

Frank looks away, not answering, and spits into the toilet bowl. He doesn't want to say it out loud but he wishes more than anything right now that he could turn back time and lock that fucking door. He's scared of living without a way to cope when things get hard and he doesn't know how else to deal with the static and suffocation in his heart and head if he can’t unleash all that white noise in physical pain once in a while.

Now that everyone knows he’s a “cutter”, they’ll be watching him like hawks to make sure he doesn’t do it again – probably even Gerard who thinks he understands what it's all about. What if they hide his razors or take the lock off the washroom door! Ohgod. Panicking, Frank starts to sweat in the damp claustrophobic room and pulls his bandaged arms away from Gerard's kind touch, getting unsteadily to his feet. He isn’t relieved about his secret getting out, he’s terrified. Terrified because he knows that his friends care too much about him to let him keep hurting himself and they’ll try to make him stop. But stopping isn’t something he can do right now. He needs this! He needs it!

“Just think about it, man,” Gerard begs, putting the first kit away, “I only want to help you Frankie. You're such a sweet guy and you don't deserve to be so mean to yourself.” Both of Frank’s forearms are now dressed in white and Frank folds them over his bare chest, fidgeting anxiously. He misses the red.

“I’ll find you a clean sweater and then I think you should come to the hotel and eat something,” Gerard adds gently, “They have great room service.”  
Frank sighs okay and tries to muster up a smile. He feels ten pounds heavier with bandages and now that the nausea has passed he is actually craving something to put in his tortured stomach. Maybe he could try filling the hole inside him with comfort food instead of self-abuse for a change. Maybe breakfast will make him feel better. For a while. Maybe.


	3. Chapter 3

Gerard fumbles nervously with his bag outside the hotel room door, listening out for the approaching footsteps of a stranger or an especially sneaky fan while he finds his keycard. Fortunately the long carpeted corridor is empty and silent at this hour in the morning. Even the maids haven’t checked in yet. Frank waits in silence beside him, leaning heavily against the wall with his eyes on the floor. He hasn’t said a word since they left the bus. 

The card does its thing, beeping softly in the lock, and the door swings open. Frank looks up slowly like he’s forcing himself to move and his large green eyes gaze numbly into the dimly-lit space. Dried blood is smeared on one of his cheeks like war paint.  
“Where’s Mikey?” he asks in the stillness.  
“Not sure,” Gerard shrugs, walking inside and flipping on the lights before glancing around, “Not here,” he adds, stating the obvious, “He’s probably next door with Bob and Ray or out with Brian. Dude, come in, sit down. Are you hungry? Here, I have graham crackers. ”  
Moving like a sleepwalker, Frank sits down heavily on Gerard’s unmade bed with the box of crackers and nibbles on one half-heartedly. Sighing worriedly, Gerard pulls up a chair opposite his friend. “Do you want to talk about what's been bothering you?” he asks softly, “You’re going to have to eventually. Things can’t go on like this.”  
Frank swallows his snack and bites his lip, looking down and fretfully tugging his sleeves over his blood-stained fingers. His face is mostly hidden behind the jagged curtain of his hair but Gerard can tell he really doesn’t want to be here. “There’s nothing to talk about. Just leave it alone, Gee, please. You can’t help.”

Gerard nods miserably, feeling the room’s cold walls closing in on both of them to trap them here in this awkward silence. How is he supposed to help someone who doesn't want help? Is there anything he can say in a situation like this?  
Frank flops down on his back on the bed staring at the ceiling and Gerard notices that his young friend is wearing those ragged blue jeans of his with the ripped knees and duct tape all over them. There’s blood drying under his bitten-down fingernails.  
“How long have you been, uh…”  
“Cutting myself?” Frank finishes, his voice flat and bitter, “Does it matter?”  
“Of course it matters,” Gerard snaps, a little anger bursting out of his fear and worry, “I thought we were way past secrets now, Frankie, and past locking all this kind of stuff up inside. Mikey had to find you bleeding all over the shower and I found you nearly passed out on the fucking floor this morning! Why didn’t you talk to one of us before things got so bad?”

Frank shakes his head and curls up into a ball on the crumpled bed covers, drained of all his usual energy and laughter. With a stab of guilt, Gerard realises that he hasn’t heard Frank laugh in days, maybe even weeks. He should have known something was wrong.  
“I didn’t want to tell any of you,” Frank finally answers, tiredly closing his eyes as his body tenses with the stress of making himself explain, “I just…I guess I wanted it to affect me and nobody else. It's my problem, not yours. It doesn't have to change anything. I didn't want you to look at me different.”  
“But you don't have to deal with it alone,” Gerard murmurs gently, lighting up a cigarette from the bedside table. Frank sighs, “Well maybe I want to, okay? I first cut years ago in junior high school and none of you knew me back then. When I started doing it again a few weeks ago I guess it was because there was nothing else in my life that helped. I didn’t think any of you would understand that,” he adds, sitting up and looking into Gerard’s eyes, “And you don’t.”

Gerard exhales smoke into the stuffy air and leans back, shocked by the coldness in his best friend’s voice. “I do want to understand though,” he says, “It’s not too late to talk about this, Frankie, and maybe I can help you stop this whole thing for good.”  
“Oh you think it’s that easy?” Frank cries, jumping to his feet with unexpected energy, his eyes blazing with disbelief, “I can’t believe you of all people would say that, Gerard. This is why I didn’t want to tell you. I don't want your fucking sympathy! Do you get it now?”  
Storming over to the door, Frank pulls it open and is back in the corridor before Gerard can stop him. “Frank, wait!”  
“No!”

Slamming the door in Gerard’s face, Frank runs away down the corridor. Guilt from shouting at his friend is already burning hot in the back of his head but he ignores it and crams it down inside of him with all of the other burning, howling screams. He doesn’t know or care where he’s going now but anywhere away from here will do. He can’t handle seeing the pity and desperate need to help shining in Gerard’s hazel eyes for one second longer. He doesn’t need help and he certainly doesn’t want pity! He’s not a victim of anything but himself. He isn’t broken and he doesn’t need to be fucking fixed! What happened this morning was an accident. He cut too deep, lost a little too much blood, got a little dizzy for a while. That’s all. It happens. It doesn’t mean anything. None of this means anything. It’s just another way of living. Another way to survive.  
Would they rather he was dead?

The corridor curves and Frank follows it back around to the elevators, his sneakers pounding on the carpet. The new bandages on his arms are itchy and one is already damp and spotted with red at the wrist. A head rush fizzes across his eyes as he walks and his chest aches with the pressure of unshed tears and un-vented anger. He feels like he’s going to explode.

Doors open and close behind him. “Hey Frankie, wait up!” It’s Ray’s voice and despite his urge to escape any more pitying looks and clueless words, Frank is almost tempted to stop and turn around. For as long as he and Ray have known each other, Ray has always looked out for him, keeping him out of trouble, holding him back from fights. Frank pretends that it annoys him but really, deep down, it makes him feel safe and he could really use some of that feeling today. He’s been riding down a dangerous, slippery blood-red spiral to get to a calming place that scares him almost as much as it comforts him and lets him breathe. Last night he came damn near close to slashing his wrists right open in the shower and he knows it. He was cutting deeper and deeper, not even feeling the pain, gasping and desperate to somehow get back the euphoria that he’s been missing onstage. Ever since She left him playing music is all he lives for, it’s what he was born to do and the only thing in his life that he has ever done right. If he can’t play properly anymore or feel how good it can be, how freeing, how beautiful, how perfect – then what has he got left? 

“Frankie!”  
Footsteps. Running. Getting closer now. ‘It’s not fair,’ Frank thinks miserably as his own footsteps slow and weaken and the fizzing headrush blinds his eyes, ‘Ray’s got longer legs than me.’  
“Frankie,” Ray says again, laying a warm hand on Frank’s shoulder and gently pulling him to a stop, “Why are you running away?”  
“I…don’t know,” Frank gasps shakily, nearly falling over as that fucking dizziness returns with a vengeance. Ray quickly wraps his arm around his back and steadies him, keeping him upright, and Frank sighs in defeat and leans exhausted against his friend.  
There’s pressure building up behind his eyes and in his chest and he wants more than ever to just let it all go and burst into tears right here in the corridor, but his eyes stay as dry as the desert and the burden of feelings and confusion inside him gets so heavy that he can barely lift his head. 

More rapid footsteps and then Gerard and Mikey appear closely folowed by Bob. Shock and concern is radiating off of all of them in waves so clear that Frank could see them even with his eyes closed. But he doesn’t want his friends to look at him like this; he doesn’t want their pitying well-intentioned stares burning into his skin. Stares that say “you're so damaged”, “you;re broken”, “how can we fix this?”  
The stares burn and without meaning to they hurt, cutting deeper than any razor. Frank hasn’t been cutting himself for attention and he doesn’t want to be coddled and worried over.  
“Come on,” Gerard says, “Let’s get him back to my room. He needs to lie down before he falls down.”  
“No,” Frank whispers, dry sobs tearing at his throat – why can’t he cry? - “Nope...”  
“Don't worry dude,” Bob reassures him as Ray’s firm hand guides Frank back down the corridor, “You’ll be okay, Frankie.”

...YOU’RE DAMAGED. YOU’RE BROKEN. YOU NEED US. WE’RE WATCHING. YOU’RE TRAPPED....

***  
“Ten minutes everyone! You’re onstage in ten!”  
Her message delivered, the blonde runner ducks back out of the dressing room door and scurries away into the depths of the arena. In her wake, the frantic activity in the My Chemical Romance dressing room intensifies in a blur of instruments, coffee and scattered costumes. Frank sits by himself on a worn leather couch in the corner wearing his Black Parade uniform and I-pod headphones, listening to endless tracks on shuffle. He couldn’t hear what the runner said just now over the roar of Black Flag but it doesn’t take a genius to guess. A few feet away, Gerard is adjusting the rip-away hospital gown he wears over his uniform for the opening song while Mikey douses his head in hairspray and Bob hammers out jerky rhythms on a practice pad with his drumsticks. 

The Black Flag track ends and Frank watches people start to leave the dressing room for the black wings of the main stage above. The thrumming baselines of tonight’s support act are still reverberating through his bones and white stage make-up is wet on his face. Ray wanders in from outside and signals that the MCR pre-show High-Five ritual is gonna be starting now in the wings.  
Frank doesn’t get up to join his friends but sits there draining the last of his coffee while Taking Back Sunday blasts through his headphones. Bob jumps up ready to go and catches Frank’s eye, smiling cautiously at him. Frank slips on his mental happy mask and smiles back, if only to stop the drummer from hovering anxiously around him even more than he already is. 

Nearly a week has passed since Gerard and the others found out about his secret and life on tour has become even harder for Frank to say the least. No locks or razors have been taken away – everyone agrees that since he isn’t a child he can’t really be treated like one – but he is rarely left alone and there’s always somebody watching him. If he wants to go and play computer games by himself in the tour bus lounge, Bob or Ray will immediately drop whatever they’re doing and say they want to play too and when the bus stops in a new city Gerard or Worm or someone else will always find an excuse to stay by Frank’s side when he goes out shopping or for coffee. People knock on the washroom door every two minutes while he’s taking a shower and he’s never ever left with the bus to himself. Wherever he goes he’s kept under constant observation by technicians, band mates, security team members and managers and it’s suffocating and driving him nuts. 

Probably the worst thing is that everyone is acting like nothing’s wrong and they aren’t even aware that they’re stalking Frank like vultures day and night. He still refuses to talk to anybody about what he sees as his own private business - and what everybody else sees as his “problem”- and as a consequence nobody is really talking to him about anything anymore. Nothing that matters anyway. Every conversation is an excruciating mix of forced small talk and tip-toeing around the elephant in the room and Frank is sad to find himself trying to avoid his friends. The whole sticky situation is upsetting him more and more every day but if he acts more emotionally than usual, if he’s grumpy or moody or loud, then everyone around him tenses up like they expect him to grab the nearest sharp object and slit his own throat at any moment!

Living at the centre of all of this unease is enough to drive anyone mad and Frank takes every chance he gets to sneak away from his minders and go for long walks on his own. Sometimes he succeeds only to be met with frantic glances and questioning eyes when he returns and that makes him feel guilty and ashamed like he’s committed some terrible crime. Then his eyes start to burn and his chest aches and his hands start shaking with anger and stress – he hasn’t done anything wrong! Why are they treating him like this? – and he escapes to the washroom or his bunk and cuts his shoulder or his legs, not caring if anyone catches him doing it. 

His friends are becoming one of the reasons he cuts and Frank can’t take it much longer. With the added pressure of everybody crowding in on his privacy, he needs the soothing release that self-harm gives him now more than ever but ironically enough he just isn’t getting it. Because of the stares and whispers and the tension in the air, he feels hopeless and wrong when he cuts now when before he’d felt relieved and secure. It’s all Gerard’s fault, Gerard and Mikey and everyone else - why can’t they just leave him alone?!

Now Frank sits in the dressing room before tonight’s show with band-aids striping his arms under his sleeves, feeling sick and depressed. The music in his ears is the only thing keeping him sane tonight and he doesn’t want to move from this couch because he’s afraid that if he stands up he’ll fall apart in front of everyone. He doesn’t want to go onstage tonight but playing music in this band still means the world to him, even if he can’t feel the rush of performing like he used to, and he knows that he probably wouldn’t survive without it. So night after night, in city after city, he takes the stage and goes through the motions: throwing himself around with his guitar, smashing microphones and nuzzling Gerard’s chest and basically acting like he always does because like breathing, it’s necessary to keep himself alive. The fans haven’t noticed a change in him and Frank is amazed at how easy it is to fake being his “normal” self. He wonders how many people out there in the audience are faking too. How many of those kids are wearing cuffs and sweatbands and stripy arm-warmers just for show and how many are actually hiding something underneath? 

The next random song on Frank’s playlist is something slow and soft and heart-stoppingly sad. A woman’s voice: Sarah McLachlan or someone like her, and it’s definitely not the kind of song he would normally listen to. With a heartsick sinking feeling he realises that this is one of Her downloads, a song from the soundtrack to one of her favourite movies. It’s mournful and haunting and it shouldn’t even be on Frank’s music player. He erased this track months ago - he’s sure he did! - along with every other song She had ever downloaded for him because after the break-up he couldn’t listen to any of them without wanting to die. The fact that he is in public now doesn’t make much of a difference: he still wants to curl up into a quivering wreck on the couch and sink through it into deep black oblivion. He feels frozen with regret and hurt, too numb to even skip the track as it plays on and on in his ears, stripping away the rest of the world and splitting it apart into a gale of minor keys and sorrow.

Frank’s hands twitch unconsciously in his fingerless black gloves, hungry for a blade. She left him months ago now and he’d thought he was over the worst of it but for some reason this song is triggering him like nothing he’s ever felt before! The bone-deep ache burning inside him is too much this time; he can’t control it or hide it behind a mask. He needs to relieve the pressure, to carve it out right now!

“Frankie?”  
Someone’s fingers are snapping loudly in front of his face.  
“Hey, snap out of it!”  
Hands reach down and yank the headphones out of Frank’s ears, killing Her song.  
“Frank, get up buddy. We have to go!” Frank blinks, looks up, and sees nothing but shadows and dust. Then the world roars back to life and he sees Mikey and Bob standing right in front of him. Mikey is holding a new bass guitar in his arms, white and black to match his uniform.  
“Show’s starting, Frank,” he says impatiently, “Let’s go!”

His bandmates leave the room and Frank watches them go for a moment, half-awake, his head spinning. Then he throws his ipod aside and makes himself get up and run after his friends: down over-heated passageways, into the wings and onto the main stage itself, hidden behind a black curtain which temporarily separates the band from their screaming audience. Ray is already there, standing on the other side of the stage. He looks relieved to see Frank. 

Matt Cortez, the band’s guitar technician, hands Frank his first guitar of the night and Bob climbs quickly onto the drum riser while Mikey gets into position near center stage. They wait there in silence, hearts pounding, adrenaline pumping, listening to the audience’s screams turn into hysterical shrieks as Gerard appears to them on his own somewhere beyond the black curtain, singing to the hordes of sweating, buzzing bodies in his hospital clothes. It’s just Gerard and the audience right now but in a few moments the show will really begin and Frank’s hands will slide over his guitar strings as his legs carry him forward into the spotlights, the drums and guitars kick in, and the curtain rises to reveal him, Mikey, Ray and Bob to the crowd along with a vast gothic backdrop and plumes of real flames: The Black Parade in all its glory. 

Sighing miserably as Her song still rattles in his mind, Frank shakes his long black bangs into his eyes and takes some deep breaths, trying to soothe his shattered psyche, but it isn’t working. He can’t calm down. There’s a blade in his pocket…  
“You okay?” Mikey asks. Frank automatically nods ‘yes’ in answer to the tired old question and then snorts at the blatant lie. Mikey frowns, looking concerned under his ghostly white make-up, but there’s no time to talk now. Gerard sings the big cue, technicians flip switches, the curtain flies up, lights dazzle, kids scream, bass lines shake the arena walls and Frank finds himself at the front of the stage with his guitar as a wave of heat and noise washes over him. 

The audience is close to 12,000 people tonight but in the glare of the spotlights Frank can only see the first few rows. Kids are already being pulled out of the heaving mosh pit and the hot, moist air is throbbing like a living thing. It’s going to be a wild night, the kind that he used to adore because performing in an atmosphere like this gave him an unbeatable rush. But thanks to the claustrophobic pressure of the last few days and the painful memories on his music player, he’s feeling more triggered now than ever and he can’t shake it off. He can’t lose himself in the music and the familiar stage theatrics. Not this time. He’s burning, aching and hurting too much.

The shadowed faces in the audience blur and darken, howling for blood. Can they see the need on Frank’s face tonight? Does anyone truly see him standing up here or are they just looking at his hair, his clothes, his body?  
The song changes and Frank retreats towards the back of the stage, playing his guitar with numb fingers and looking around for help from his excited band mates as they run and jump about, their spirits high music roaring in their ears. He has never felt so separate from them. So unreal and fake and lost. He wants to cry. Or throw up.  
WHAT AM I DOING HERE?  
Blood, blood, blood…  
Figures dressed in black hover in the wings. Lights strobe and flash red and white. Blood and bone. Sweat and a lack of tears. Frank ducks his head and tries to concentrate on his playing, tries to breathe. It isn’t working – nothing’s working! He needs blood and pain. He needs to feel alive again before he’s lost and dead forever.  
Lights flash and he nearly drops his guitar. The song ends with a staged explosion and the earth-shaking cry of “DEAD!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \------------- Feel free to leave me comments or questions, I will always answer. Thanks for reading, I'll update again soon. stay safe. x ----------------


	4. Chapter 4

Through sheer force of will, Frank makes it through the next five songs but by the end of ‘House of Wolves’ he’s struggling to keep going. He has no memory of what he’s just played and the world outside his head is blurry and dim as specks of blood soak through the shoulder of his Parade jacket from old cuts. The sound of Her song in his mind won't die and he feels like there’s a vice clamped around his throat squeezing tighter and tighter. He can barely play his guitar anymore his hands are shaking so badly and all he can think about is the crushing, choking pressure building up in his chest, the screams and tears and sickness like a poison inside him and it hurts more every second. 

It hurts so much he feels like the only way to release this much stress is to slit his arms from wrist to elbow and lie down bleeding out into eternal darkness but he doesn’t want to die. Dying would only hurt the ones he loves and cut off any possibility of his life ever getting better in the future. It wouldn't solve shit! So the only alternative is to somehow silence the noise inside him and make the choking black hurricane die instead, to block out the pain and fear and pressure just for a moment so he can breathe and there are lots of ways to do that. There are lots of ways to silence a scream.

When the lights go down after ‘House of Wolves’ and the stage plunges into darkness, Frank drags himself up from where he was playing on his knees by his mic stand and stumbles into the wings. In a few moments only a couple of the lights will come back on - a deep blue glow with a single white spotlight on Gerard – and the song ‘Cancer’ will begin. During ‘Cancer’ Frank is supposed to sit down onstage cocooned in blue shadows and play an acoustic guitar but tonight he can’t do that, there’s just no way. If he stays here even one minute longer he knows he’ll end up ramming his buzzing, tortured head into the speakers or something and there’s no way he’s going to ruin the show like that, not in front of everybody. 

Guitar technician Matt is waiting in the wings with Frank’s acoustic and Frank runs up to him after Ray, Mikey and Bob have wandered off to the refreshment table for water and redbull. “Sorry Matt, I can’t finish,” he whispers shakily, ripping off his sweat-soaked Parade jacket as he pants for air that just won’t come, “Can you take over for me?”  
Matt blinks in surprise, caught off-guard, “Sure but what's wrong?”  
“I’m gonna be sick,” Frank lies desperately, dropping his jacket on the floor and pushing past Matt towards the darkness beyond, “Please just do it!”

With no other choice and ‘Cancer’ due to start, Matt grabs an earpiece for himself, runs onstage in his black roadie clothes with the guitar and starts to play. Knowing that the show will go on without him, Frank gives in to the smothering panic coursing through his body and bolts for the nearest exit, ignoring the curious glances he receives on the way. All the techs and crew members backstage have jobs to do and can’t afford to leave their posts to chase after fleeing band members. Frank knows this and he’s counting on it because he desperately needs to be alone right now. Someone has left a packet of cigarettes on a table and he steals them as he runs by, kicking open the fire exit door and lighting one up as he emerges numb and trembling into the night. 

He's outside the back of the arena in the wide equipment loading bay, dwarfed by ranks of trucks, ladders and forklifts. The My Chem tour bus waits in the dark nearby, its blue skin glinting coldly in the moonlight. There’s nobody else out here. Frank stands frozen by the door for a moment sucking hot, smoky death into his aching lungs but he still can’t breathe right from panic and the cigarette makes the feeling worse. There’s a huge crushing anvil of emotion in his chest that just won’t let him be and his brain is still buzzing and screaming and racing and crying... SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!

Dropping the smouldering cancer stick, Frank turns and rams his fist into the wall behind him, jarring his arm and splitting his knuckles but he barely feels a thing. Snatching the razor blade from his pocket, he tears it through the skin of his wrist and watches blood rise and fall away, a tiny river in the dark, but it doesn’t help. Why won't it help anymore?! The noise in his mind won’t quit. The hurricane won’t fucking die!  
Gazing desperately at the tour bus through his sweat-damp hair, Frank realizes what he has to do and that he needs to do it now. He has to smash up the anvil in his chest before he suffocates, he has to silence the hurt before it drives him mad and right now, in this awful moment, he no longer cares if it means dying.

***  
“Where the fuck is he?” Gerard yells, throwing his hands up in frustration, “Why didn’t anyone follow him when he ran off?”  
“What were they supposed to do? Drop whatever they were doing and chase after him?” Brian asks.  
“Yes!” Gerard cries, “With the state of mind that Frank’s been in lately that’s exactly what someone should have done! He’s been gone for hours now, Brian. Who knows what could have happened to him or what he might have done to himself...”  
“Hey, no, don’t go there, Gerard. Not yet,” Brian tells him firmly, “For all we know Frank is genuinely sick and he's passed out in a bathroom stall somewhere. We’ll find him, okay? We’ll find him. Calm down.”

Gerard nods miserably and paces slowly around the empty dressing room, tugging anxiously at his short black hair.  
“Okay, let’s break this down,” Brian continues, taking a deep calming breath, “The last person to talk to Frankie was Matt and the last person to see him was a member of venue security who watched him leave through one of the fire exits. I’ve got our own security searching the arena for him now, Ray and Bob and most of the crew are out looking for him in town, Mikey and Alicia have already searched inside the buses and_”  
“And I’m just standing here feeling useless,” Gerard groans, “Brian, where is he?”  
The manager shrugs helplessly, “I don’t know.”

When Gerard glanced behind him during the concert to see Matt Cortez playing guitar where Frank should be, he’d instantly felt scared for his friend but the show had to go on and surely nothing could be that wrong. During the intro to 'Mama', Matt had shuffled over to say that Frank was feeling sick but considering Frank had once insisted on playing a show with pneumonia before, this message did nothing to calm Gerard’s nerves. 

During intermission, the singer asked everyone he could find if they knew where Frank was but none of the stage crew hovering in the wings or the dressing rooms had any idea. More ominously, when Brian tried calling Frank’s cell phone it was turned off and there was no one inside the band's tour bus. Anxious for Gerard to get back on stage for the concert’s second act, Brian had promised to start looking for Frank right away but by the finale Frank was still nowhere to be found. 

And now the show is over and everyone is tired and worried. The radio is warning of an incoming storm and Frank has been missing for over three hours. “Somebody somewhere must have seen him after he left the main building,” Brian mutters for the tenth time, “But Rear Gate security has no record of him leaving the site so either he climbed over a wall to get out of the loading bay or he’s still in it somewhere.”  
“He likes to climb things,” Gerard frets, “He likes to be high up.”  
“Right. Well… let’s try and retrace his steps again. It’s better than sitting around here doing nothing and we’re running short on time. The tour needs to get on the road again. We’ve got hundreds of miles to cover before dawn.”  
“Then let the crew trucks go ahead if they need to keep time,” Gerard tells him, “But I’m not leaving without Frankie.”  
“I know. If we don’t find him within the next twenty minutes...I guess I’ll start calling local hospitals.”

Together, Brian and Gerard go out into the windswept loading bay and watch as the large fleet of equipment trucks is prepped to get back on the road. The air is cool but heavy, crackling with storm clouds and infused with the prickly smell of ozone. A few scattered crew members wandering up and down the truck ramps see them standing there and throw questioning glances at Brian, eager to be back on the road. Brian nods reluctantly and walks over to give the Crew Chief permission to get under way. While he’s gone, Gerard looks anxiously around the vast darkened bay, peering through shadows and spotlights for any sign of his missing friend but there’s nothing. No Frankie.

Sighing heavily, Gerard looks down at the ground, kicking at the dirty concrete, and that’s when he sees something small and shiny lying there in the dark. Crouching down for a better look, he realises what the tiny object is just as Brian reappears over his shoulder and spells it out for him: “A razor blade?”  
Standing up slowly, Gerard turns in a small circle, scanning the ground under their feet with narrowed eyes until he finds a trail of round blood drops leading away into the night. 

Swallowing hard as his pulse quickens and his mouth turns to ashes, Gerard wordlessly follows the erratic blood trail through the bay keeping his eyes locked to the ground as he weaves through ladders, vans and dumpsters. The blood leads up to the doors of the band’s tour bus as if Frank had gone inside for a while, but then doubles back into the bay and Gerard follows it closely, squinting in the dark. When the trail ends he looks up and flinches at the wall right in front of his face. A dull blue metal wall, glinting faintly in the darkness: the back of the tour bus. “Huh?” the singer blurts in confusion, laying his hands on the smooth cold surface of the vehicle. There’s no door at this end of the bus and yet the blood trail ends here. If it is Frank’s blood then where did he go?  
Brian walks up behind Gerard and sees what he sees. “I don’t get it…”  
Then Gerard spies a tacky crimson stain smeared across the bus’s skin about ten feet off the ground – nearly double Frank’s height. Stepping back for a better look, he nearly trips over a long metal ladder lying discarded on the asphalt. The ladder is running lengthways towards the bus as if it had been recently leaning against the vehicle’s blue side and someone had kicked it over…  
“Oh shit,” Gerard whispers, putting two and two together.  
Brian shoots him a confused look and then follows Gerard’s gaze and groans softly as realization dawns, “He's on top of the fucking bus?”  
Gerard skitters backwards away from the towering blue vehicle and stares wide-eyed up at the bus’s roof. This is a luxury double-decker tour bus with all the trimmings and it's thirteen feet tall.  
“Yeah, he is.”

***  
“Frankie?” Gerard calls into the darkness, staring hopelessly upwards, “Frank, are you up there?”  
Brian glances around to make sure that the roadies are still over by their trucks on the other side of the loading bay. They are, and it looks like they’re getting ready to leave. Good. Out of sight, out of mind. The last thing Brian wants is an audience for this mess.  
“Frankie!” Gerard yells again, cupping his hands around his mouth while his eyes anxiously search the edge of the bus roof which is all he can see of it from the ground, “FRANK!”  
No answer.  
A violent wind gusts through the loading bay, rattling the trash in the grimy dumpsters and the equipment trucks start their engines and rumble out of the gates. Headlights flare. The roadies are gone. The lone security guard in the blacked-out booth by the gate reactivates the barrier and goes back to his duties and Brian prays that he can't see the bus roof on his camera feeds. Thunder booms across the night sky and the moon is snuffed out by storm clouds.

“Maybe he isn’t up there,” Brian says nervously, “I mean, we’d be able to see him if he was, wouldn’t we?”  
“Only if he was standing up,” Gerard replies in a strained voice, “This is fucking ridiculous. Can you get onto the roof from inside the bus?”  
“Well there's a hatch for ventilation or whatever but it has a safety-catch on it so it can't be opened wide enough for a person to climb through.”  
“Shit. FRANK, IF YOU’RE UP THERE YOU’D BETTER FUCKING ANSWER ME!”  
“Or what?” a tired voice slurs from somewhere up in the darkness, “The fuck are you gonna do to me, Gee?”  
“Frank,” Brian murmurs, “He really is up there.”  
“And he sounds drunk,” Gerard sighs, replaying what Frank just said in his mind again so that he can weigh up the blurriness in the young guitarist’s voice against how Frank usually sounds when he’s wasted. Something’s different this time. Something bad. Gerard shivers as a trickle of ice-cold fear runs down his spine.  
“What are you doing up there, Frankie?” he calls, trying not to sound panicked, “Why don’t you come down?”  
More silence, broken only by the wind and roar of the oncoming storm. The rest of the band and crew who live on the bus haven’t returned yet.  
Gerard and Brian are on their own.

The silence drags on for second after painful second and Gerard is about to run for the discarded ladder when Frank suddenly staggers to his feet somewhere near the centre of the roof and becomes visible to his friends on the ground. Gerard freezes, his heart racing as he stares fearfully upwards through the dimness and watches Frank stand unsteadily, swaying on his feet as the howling wind batters his skinny body. He’s still wearing the bottom half of his Parade uniform and a faded black t-shirt that looks shiny and wet, shrouded in shadows and orange street-light There’s an empty liquor bottle in one of his hands and something long, thin and metallic in the other. A bloodied kitchen knife.  
“Ohmigod,” Brian whispers.  
“Frankie, come down,” Gerard stammers, unable to look away from the blood running down Frank’s arms, “Please! Or at least let me come up there and_”  
“NO! Don’t you fucking dare!” Frank yells, stumbling towards the edge of the roof, only inches away from the drop. “Don’t you dare come up here, and if you call for help I swear to God I will fucking jump backwards and break my fucking neck! There’s nothing that wants helping or fixing up here, Gerard. Do you get that now? There’s nothing!”  
“Frankie-”  
“NOTHING!” Frank screams, throwing the bottle at his friend’s head. Gerard ducks, shielding his face, and the bottle smashes into the concrete, spraying him with shards of wet glass. The sharp smell of whiskey drifts into the stormy air. 

Shivering in the icy gale, Frank laughs down at the mess – the kind of manic, humourless laugh that people make when it’s a choice between that or crying – and lurches forwards again to the very edge of the roof. His black hair has fallen thickly over his eyes, leaving him with only half a deathly-pale face and he looks completely blind.  
“Frank, STOP!” Brian orders, holding his hands up in the air, “Stop moving and sit down, okay? I don’t want you to fall!”  
“I don’t care what you fucking want!” Frank screams, stumbling sideways as another gust of wind thunders through the bay, “Did any of you care what I wanted this week? I just wanted to be LEFT ALONE but you couldn’t do that - none of you could! You couldn’t let me handle my shit ON MY OWN!” The guitarist is shivering violently now, his blood-stained hand shaking around the knife handle, and Gerard watches him fearfully, trying to figure out if this is just because of the cold and alcohol or something else. “I’m sorry, Frankie,” he shouts, feeling sick in his stomach, “We didn’t mean to make things harder for you. We just... we wanted to keep you safe! We love you, we were worried about you and we didn’t want you to hurt yourself again.”  
“Well...it’s too late now isn't it,” Frank replies sadly, laughing again, although this time it sounds like sobbing. Blood is still dripping steadily from his left arm and, more frighteningly, seeping through his t-shirt and splattering in red droplets onto his sneakers. “But we can’t leave you alone right now,” Gerard continues, shaking with fear as panic builds up inside him, “Not until you get down from there!”

“That doesn't sound like a very good deal, Gee,” Frank slurs weakly, his voice breathless and wet like he's starting to drown, “You’re not very good at this...”  
“Frank, please, you have to listen to me!”  
“Why should I? Did you listen to me when you were passing out in parking lots and under other band’s stages a couple years ago? When you were 24/7 wasted on booze and pills? Did you listen to me this week even, when I wanted you off my fucking back? Don't talk to me about listening!”  
Gerard swallows hard, feeling the bitter sting of memories as a wet heat burns in his eyes, “That’s not fair,” he says hoarsely.  
“Fair?” Frank sobs, crying properly now as tears run down his cheeks, “What’s fair, Gee? Please tell me, what is fair? Fair would be her not walking out on me! Fair would be me not drinking down whatever shit’s left lying around just so I can make this fucking noise inside me stop! Just so I can BREATHE! Because this isn’t living anymore, Gee, it’s not. And maybe…m-maybe being dead would be better than walking around feeling like I’m already six feet under, crushed by all that dirt…my chest... hurts so fucking much! It HURTS and you…She...they all made it worse! Now I'm so fucking lost...W-What else can I do? Tell me what I should do!”

“You should come down here where we can help you,” Gerard pleads, terrified and almost crying himself to see his friend so upset, “Or let one of us come up there. Whatever you want us to do we'll do it, just let us help you, man, please! You don't need to fight this thing all alone.”  
Thunder howls like a demon through the night and lightning splits the sky apart as Frank suddenly drops the knife and staggers back a couple of steps, woozily rubbing his face with his blood-stained hands before finally collapsing to his knees as tremors continue to shake his frail body.  
“Frank, please let us help you,” Brian begs him, “You’ve gone through so much before and you can make it through this too. We’ll figure something out, I promise!”  
“You promise?…Everybody promises,” Frank mumbles, hugging his knees and rocking his trembling body back and forth, his broken voice filled with hiccuping sobs, “But you can’t come in here and t-take this away from me. Cut this thing out of me, just cut it out! Please stop it, MAKE IT STOP!”

Panicking as Frank’s condition worsens, Brian pulls out his cell phone and turns to Gerard, whispering urgently. “Keep Frank’s attention while I text Ray and get him to call 911 for us.”  
Gerard nods and takes a step closer to the bus, his heart breaking to see Frank in so much pain. It’s like a nightmare. How did things get so bad? Another step forward and Frank lifts his head and looks down at his friend through a mess of tears and blood. His green eyes are dull and glazed behind a cloak of wet hair and smudged eye liner and he looks like a little kid who’s cried himself to exhaustion. Gerard recognizes that dazed dead-eyed look, he's seen it too many times before, and he knows it's caused by more than just booze. “Frankie, did you take something, like pills or other stuff?” he yells over the noise of the storm, “What did you take?”

Frank shakes his head weakly in denial but he’s breathing in short quick gasps and his pale skin is shining with sweat. He’s clutching at his stomach with hands that are losing their grip and his shakes are so bad now that he can barely stay sitting up. “Nothing,” he sobs, breath rattling in his chest, “I-I didn’t _”  
“What. Did. You. Take?” Gerard asks again, struggling to keep his voice steady as fear threatens to overwhelm it. Frank rubs his face again, scrubbing at his eyes, and when he looks back at Gerard, his gaze is even more unfocused. “Pills,” he murmurs, so quietly that Gerard has to lip-read what he’s saying, “Aspirin, Mikey’s meds…and the whiskey…”

“Shit! Alright, enough fucking around,” Gerard cries desperately, “Hold on Frank, I’m coming up there to get you!”  
“I can’t do this,” Frank chokes, closing his eyes as his trembling body starts to slide over the roof's edge, “I-I can’t…”  
“Fuck, he’s going to fall!” Brian shouts. And the next instant Frank does fall, dropping half-conscious from the roof and plummeting towards the concrete. 

Without hesitation Gerard darts forwards to cushion his friend's fall and Frank’s body slams into his back and smacks him down hard on the asphalt. A sharp crack sounds in his ears and white lights speckle his vision as pain spears his head and his left shoulder while his arm is trapped awkwardly under his chest. “Ow-ww, dammit!” he groans, sitting up as Brian drags Frank off of him and props him up against the side of the bus. Frank's eyes have fallen closed and he’s covered in blood, his damp hair plastered to his forehead and cheeks with sweat and tears.  
“Frankie, what have you done?” Gerard screams, tears of fear and pain flooding his eyes as the storm finally breaks and a deluge of rain comes gushing down around them, “Why did you do this? Do you want to kill yourself?!”

Frank groans miserably and slumps down on his side, passed out. “Oh no, you don’t,” Brian mutters, slapping him across the face and then holding him up under the freezing rain to wake him. Frank shakes his head and half-opens his eyes and Brian takes this opportunity to open the guitarist's mouth and stick two fingers down his throat. Gagging and retching, Frank vomits up a sticky pool of whiskey and half-dissolved pills onto the wet ground and then goes limp in Brian's arms. 

Gerard gets unsteadily to his feet with his arm and head throbbing as rain soaks through his clothes. “Is he gonna be alright, Brian?”  
“Who knows?” the manager grunts, gripping Frank under the arms and dragging him through the downpour to the front of the bus, “You broke his fall and Ray’s called an ambulance. We need to get him inside now and stop the bleeding while we try to figure out what pills he took.”  
“Okay,” Gerard chokes, shivering and fighting tears as the tension and emotion of the night takes its toll, “I’m sorry, Brian, I’m so sorry.”  
“It’s not your fault, man.”  
“Maybe not but I could have paid more attention the last few weeks,” Gerard rambles miserably, pulling open the tour bus door as cold rain runs into his eyes and warm tears run out, “I know Frankie has a lot of problems and pain that needs working out but we didn’t really make it any easier for him did we, crowding him all day and all night. We just made him feel worse! All he wanted was some space and understanding but I couldn't see that. What kind of friend does that make me?”


	5. Chapter 5

Patiently ignoring Gerard's self-blaming rant, Brian drags Frank onto the tour bus and lies him down on the nearest couch, shaking him roughly awake again. Trying hard not to cry, Gerard looks on helplessly as pain blazes like fire through his injured arm and shoulder and his vision starts to blur with tears. His head is pounding from where he banged it on the concrete when Frank fell on him and he can barely see straight.

With a weak groan Frank opens his eyes and immediately throws up all over Brian, spewing watery vomit everywhere. "Oh god," Gerard croaks, clapping a hand over his mouth as his stomach heaves, "I think I'm gonna be sick too."  
“I hope not," Brian sighs, peeling off his puke-stained shirt and putting an empty ice bucket from the mini-bar beside the couch near Frank's head, “Just stay calm and take some deep breaths. I think Frankie’s thrown up whatever was left in his stomach but some of the drugs must already be in his system.” Grabbing a clean dishtowel from the sink, the young manager wraps it tightly around Frank's bleeding arm and anxiously checks his watch, “Okay, the ambulance should be here soon. I'm gonna go grab the first aid kit. Stay here and keep Frank awake, okay? It’s very important."

Gerard nods his aching head and suddenly the world begins to spin in his blurred vision. Nausea burns the back of his throat and then gravity drags him down towards the floor and all he wants to do is sleep. “Hey!” Brian cries in alarm, “Dude, what’s wrong?”  
“Dunno,” the singer mumbles, crumpling to his knees and leaning weakly against Frank's couch, “It's nothing...I’m fine.”  
“Like hell you are,” Brian mutters, crouching down beside him, “Your eyes don’t look right, I think you’ve got a concussion.”  
“I have?” Frightened, Gerard tries to focus his eyes on Brian’s worried face but it only worsens his headache and he runs a trembling hand through his thick black hair. His fingers come away wet with blood. “Ohhh shit!”

“I should call the hospital again,” Brian says fearfully, “They need to send enough medics to pick you up too and... shit, I can't get cell reception inside the bus. Uh, I'm gonna step outside, okay man? I’ll be gone two minutes tops, just calling the hospital and getting First Aid stuff and I'll call Mikey too so he can come with us. Just hang in there okay? Stay with Frank and don’t let yourself or him fall asleep. Puke in the bucket if you need to. Do you think you can do that?”  
“Yeah,” Gerard mumbles, rubbing his eyes as the world slowly stops spinning, “I can do that.”  
“Great. Don’t worry, we’ll get through this,” Brian says, trying to reassure himself as much as his friend before jumping up and dashing away down the bus.

Taking a slow deep breath, Gerard concentrates on the hot, angry pain in his arm and uses it to stay alert. Beside him Frank is shivering badly on the couch and there's blood splattered everywhere and soaking through the dishcloth on the guitarist's sliced wrist. “Frankie?” Gerard whispers, stroking Frank's cheek with trembling fingers, “Frank, can you hear me?” Slowly, Frank nods and looks blearily at his friend through swollen eyes misty with pain and poison. His tattooed skin has paled to a lifeless grey-white and his lips are turning blue as he wheezes and gasps for each breath like he‘s in a room with no air.“I'm sorry, Gee,” he sobs in a slurred whisper, “Didn't m-mean...so much…"  
"It's okay," Gerard says shakily, "It's okay... but Frank you're really scaring me here. You’re really fucking scaring me! Why did you do this to yourself?!" 

Frank’s eyelids flutter closed and he coughs as lightning flashes outside the bus windows. “Didn't w-want this,” he whimpers, "Just w-wanted it to be quiet… to be me again. Fuck… I feel like... Like I can’t breathe. Don’t let me die...Gee, please don’t let m-me die!”  
“I won’t,” Gerard sobs, tears hot on his cheeks as he looks around helplessly for Brian, “I won’t, you'll be fine, I promise. I’ll take care of you. You’re gonna be alright, but you've gotta stay awake, okay, so open your eyes. You have to stay awake, Frankie, please!”

Frank nods weakly and half-opens his bloodshot eyes as cold sweat and rainwater trickle down his face. Blood is oozing through his shirt and pooling under his body and it soaks through Gerard’s sleeve as he wraps his arm around Frank's skinny shoulders and hugs him tight.

Outside thunder rolls like bombs through the black sky and the tour bus shakes like the world is falling apart.

Wiping his eyes on his coat, Gerard sits back on the floor and gently pulls Frank down with him so that he can hold him closer. Frank falls heavily into the singer’s arms, barely conscious, and Gerard gasps as fresh pain rips through his wounded shoulder. Looking around desperately for anything that might improve Frank’s condition, he reaches up with his good arm and opens the window above the couch to let in the stormy air, cradling Frank with the guitarist’s back against his chest but it doesn’t help much and he's terrified to hear Frank's breathing so unsteady, like it could stop at any moment. Blinking past the tears and dizziness in his eyes, Gerard watches with terror as his best friend slips further and further away. Where the hell is that ambulance?!

“Brian?” he yells fearfully, “It’s been more than two minutes, where are you?”  
“Here!” Brian answers, hurrying back onto the bus with a First Aid kit, “Don’t worry, I'm here. How are you doing? Is Frank still awake?”  
“I think so,” Gerard sobs, nuzzling Frank's wet hair as the younger man shivers weakly in his arms, "But he's getting worse, Brian, and I…I don‘t feel so good."

Brian nods anxiously, a lump in his throat as he looks between Frank’s pale, wet face and Gerard’s dazed, frightened eyes. The singer looks like he's about to faint and the guitarist's eyes are barely open as the strength drains from his body. Blood is splashed on the carpet and on everyone’s clothes and is trickling down Gerard’s face from under his hair. It looks like a war zone in here.

“Try not to panic,” Brian says desperately, scraping his fingers through his hair, “The paramedics are on their way so just hold on just a little longer guys, both of you, don’t quit on me now.” Ripping open the First Aid pack, the manager pulls on a pair of medical gloves and gently tugs Frank away from Gerard just as Frank’s eyes roll back in his head and he blacks out. “No, no Frankie, wake up!” Gerard cries, tears running down his cheeks, but Frank has sunk into unconsciousness and it looks like no amount of shouting will bring him back up. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck...” Brian groans, slapping white dressings - soon stained red - against Frank’s injuries. “Here, hold his arm up above the level of his heart and apply pressure if you can,” he tells Gerard, “I think he's cut up his chest too. Shit, I was never trained to deal with this kind of thing!" Slicing through Frank’s wet t-shirt with a pair of scissors, Brian rips the material away and reveals pale white and crimson-smeared skin.

Then Frank's laboured breathing gets even worse and his unconscious body starts to shudder and jerk on the stained floor, his head snapping back and forth as he’s wracked with drug-induced convulsions. "Fuck!” Brian swears helplessly, close to tears, “Oh god, what do we do now?!"  
“We have to figure out what pills he took,” Gerard sobs as Frank’s body thankfully falls still again, “Where the hell is Mikey? You called him right?”  
“Yeah,” Brian affirms, checking Frank’s mouth to make sure he’s still breathing and hasn’t swallowed his tongue, “But he didn’t answer his phone. I left a message.”  
Wiping away the blood on Frank’s torso, the manager gasps hoarsely as he uncovers a wide bloody gash carved into the left side of the guitarist’s chest. Gerard turns to look as well and his breath catches in his throat when he sees what Frank has done. “That’s… has he cut out his tattoo of her name?!”

There’s a moment of stunned silence and Brian’s mind fills with echoes of Frank’s traumatised screams on the roof: ‘Cut this fucking thing out of me, just stop it! MAKE IT STOP!’ This couldn't possibly get any worse. Shaking himself back to the present, he presses a thick pad of gauze against the wound and tries to slow the stream of blood flowing from Frank’s fatally pale skin. “Should he be bleeding so much?” Gerard whimpers, dabbing cautiously at the blood dripping from his own head injury. “Pills and alcohol can thin a person's blood until it doesn't clot properly,” Brian explains tensely, his voice cracking, "Combining them like this when you've cut yourself open is lethal, I mean it’s fucking suicide!”

Abruptly the tour bus’ side-door flies open and Mikey bursts in wearing a black parka soaking wet from the rain. “What the hell's going on?” the bassist yells when he sees the blood-splattered mess before him, “What happened?”  
Gerard looks up woozily and wipes blood out of his eyes as another wave of dizziness rattles through his aching head.  
"Mikey, go check your medication," Brian orders quickly, "Frank's OD’d and we need to know what he took.”  
Mikey nods in speechless shock, his eyes as big as saucers, and then runs off to the bunks, quickly rushing back with several pill bottles in his hands. "This is not good, so not good!" he stammers, "My Paxil's gone and some Zoloft too and like ALL of the aspirin!"  
"Shit," Brian whispers, wiping his bloody hands on his jeans.  
"He’s dying, isn't he?" Mikey gulps, hugging the bottles to his chest as rain drips from his hair, "Frank's dying."

There’s a moment of desolate silence, broken only by thunder and rain. Then Gerard starts to cry, his pained sobs echoing in the quiet. Feeling sick and cold, Mikey kneels down by his brother and puts his arms around him. "It's okay," he whispers softly, not believing a word of it, "It's okay, Gee, he'll be alright." Gerard shakes his head and buries his face in his little brother’s coat, "No," he sobs, "He won't and it's not alright, Mikey, nothing's alright!"

At last, the high-pitched wail of an ambulance siren comes screaming out of the night and Brian leaps to his feet and lunges for the door, rushing outside to meet the paramedics. Lightning flashes and an ocean of rain falls from the heavens, shining ice-blue and red in the siren’s glow.

Mikey watches the open doors being beaten and battered by the wind and waits impatiently for the paramedics to run in and save the day. “Come on, come on...”  
Then Gerard suddenly seems heavier in his arms and when Mikey gently pushes his brother back, he’s horrified to watch him collapse onto the carpet, lying motionless beside Frank. "Gee?" Mikey chokes, "Gerard, wake up!" Gerard’s eyes are closed and he's taking slow, shallow breaths as tears pink with blood trickle down his cheeks. "No!" Mikey wails helplessly.

"Mikey, what’s wrong?" Brian cries, rushing back onto the bus with Ray and two paramedics in tow. "It's Gerard," Mikey gasps, breathless with panic, "He just passed out or something."  
"Jesus!" Ray blurts, his brown eyes wide with shock as he struggles to take in the blood-stained chaos.

One of the paramedics - a chubby blond guy - kneels down next to Frank while his dark-haired colleague goes to Gerard. "Hi I'm Grady. Is this the one who overdosed?" he asks, checking Frank's pulse with gloved fingers. "Yes," Brian answers quickly, "His name is Frank. Mikey knows what he took." With shaking hands, Mikey shoves the pill bottles at the medic. "Plus a bottle of whiskey," Brian adds.  
Grady frowns and whips an oxygen mask out of his kitchen , strapping it over Frank’s face. "When did he lose consciousness?”  
“I don’t know exactly, he was drifting in and out,” Brian says anxiously, “But then he had a fit or something and it’s been at least five minutes this time. We can‘t get him to wake up.”  
Nodding grimly the medic gently pries open Frank’s eyes to examine them with a tiny pen-light then reports into his radio: “First patient is a young white male. Unconscious but pupils are equal and reactive. He's in severe respiratory distress." Pulling gauze and a blood pressure cuff out of his med-kit he quickly wraps Frank's arm in both, "Hypotensive. OD on Aspirin and mixed NSAI drugs with alcohol. Deep lacerations to the arms and chest. Self-inflicted?" Brian nods reluctantly, "Yes."  
Grady sighs, his expression grave. "We need to get him out of here Shawn," he warns the other medic, "Like five minutes ago."

Shawn has been busy trying to wake Gerard and is now examining the bleeding wound under his hair. “How long ago did he hit his head?" he asks.  
"Maybe fifteen minutes ago," Brian answers fretfully, "Outside on the concrete. But he was awake until just now. I tried to keep an eye on him but I had to find things for Frank and get help and call people. I'm sorry.”  
Shawn nods sympathetically. "Don’t blame yourself. It looks like you had a lot to deal with here. What did you say his name was?"  
"Gerard," Mikey whispers, biting his bottom lip to pieces as he stares anxiously at his brother.  
"Okay. Gerard, if you can hear me please open your eyes."  
Gerard moans something in his sleep and shakes his head a little.  
"Gerard?" Shawn tries again, "Open your eyes for me."  
"How are you doing, Shawn?" Grady interrupts, elevating Frank’s wounded arm, "As soon as Dave gets a gurney in here, I’m taking this kid out."  
"Yep, okay," Shawn mutters, running a gloved hand over Gerard's chest.  
"Are any of you guys family?” Grady asks the others. “Who‘s going to accompany these two to hospital?”  
“Me,” Mikey says quickly, “I’m staying with Gerard. He‘s my brother.”  
"I’ll go too," Brian decides at once, grabbing a jacket from the bus driver's chair, "They're my responsibility and I have their insurance info."

"Hey buddy," Shawn says with relief as Gerard’s eyes flicker open, "My name’s Shawn. I’m a paramedic. Can you tell me your name?”  
Gerard looks blearily around the bus as a third medic arrives wrestling a gurney through the open doors. “Gerard,” he mumbles faintly.  
“Good. And do you know what year it is?”  
“I... What's going on?" Gerard asks fearfully, trying to push the medics hands away. "Come on, Gerard," Shawn says calmly, "Tell me what year it is."  
"2007," Gerard answers correctly, letting his arms drop back onto the carpet, "Friday night, I think.”  
“Do you remember hitting your head tonight?”  
“Frank fell…Yeah I hit my head. It hurts."  
“I bet. Now tell me where else it hurts. Your head and where else?”  
“My arm…” Gerard slurs weakly as his eyes drift closed again, "My shoulder hurts…I'm so tired...”  
“Open your eyes, Gerard,” Shawn orders, placing an oxygen mask over his patient’s mouth and nose. With a visible effort the singer does as he’s told, looking hurt and confused. “Well done,” Shawn tells him, “That’s great. Now keep them open for as long as you can for me, okay? We're taking you to hospital now and they're gonna fix you up.”

“Ray, I’m leaving you in charge," Brian says as the medics get ready to go, "Round up Bob, James, Matt, Worm and the girls and call Stacey in LA and tell her exactly what’s happened. Then wait for the Support to get back on their own bus and tell the drivers I want everybody taken to the big rest-stop on the Eastern city limits. Wait there until I call you back. Got it?"  
"Yeah, got it," Ray says, sounding shell-shocked. "Good. Thanks," Brian says, letting out a long, quivering breath as he watches the paramedics strap Frank’s body onto the waiting gurney, "Christ, I hope Frankie makes it through this. He doesn't deserve it, Ray, he doesn't..."  
"I know," Ray says softly, laying a comforting hand on Brian's shoulder.  
"No one should ever have to feel so unhappy that they want to do this," Brian whispers, wiping his eyes on his sleeve, "What a fucking nightmare.”

***  
The hospital Emergency Room is buzzing with activity even at this late hour, bustling with people and reeking of disinfectant and latex, it echoes with the sounds of sickness and tears. 

When Grady and Shawn bring their patients through the ER doors, two doctors immediately run up and wheel Frank away into a Trauma Room where they flush out his stomach with liquid charcoal to neutralise the chalky poison of the pills and stitch up his bleeding wounds. He's lost too much blood to survive much longer so they give him a transfusion and when he stops breathing they put a tube down his throat to breathe for him. He doesn't regain consciousness the entire time and Brian and Mikey aren't allowed to see what happens next.  
Gerard is triaged and subjected to some neurological tests before being stripped of his clothes and redressed in a hospital gown similar to the fake one he wears every night onstage for the Black Parade. The gash on his head is cleaned and sutured and then he's taken away into the shuttered depths of the hospital for x-rays and scans. 

Mikey and Brian sit alone in the waiting room filling out insurance forms and drinking cheap coffee under the harsh fluorescent lights, worrying themselves sick. It's going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \------------ (Thanks for reading, i will update again as soon as I can. xx) ---------------


	6. Chapter 6

An hour crawls by and the guys don't hear any news about their injured friends. Cups of coffee turn cold and dozens of faceless medics hurry past down endless white corridors where everything looks too bright and harsh to be real. Details scream and whispers shout and people walk around wearing a heavy sadness like a second skin, all their happiness and hope abandoning them at the door. Brian and Mikey sit in melancholy silence, emotionally and physically exhausted, as they wait for a doctor to finally approach them and tell them...what?  
That both their friends are going to be alright?  
That Gerard is recovering but Frank is dead?  
That Frank will live but Gerard died of unexpected complications?  
That both of them are beyond saving?  
That Frank has liver failure and Gerard is brain damaged?  
That both of them will be fine?  
He's going to be okay...  
He'll never be the way he was again...  
I'm sorry but there was nothing we could do...

Minutes tick painfully by. The faint smell of scorched flesh drifts through antiseptic air and the sound of someone vomiting. Groans of pain. Footsteps and voices. The mechanical bleep-bleep of machines. Coughing and crying. Someone laughing and a staticky radio. Distant shouts and a ringing phone. The dull clunk of a vending machine.

Mikey sits in a corner chair with his arms folded and his thin legs fidgeting restlessly as he tries to keep his frantic anxiety under control. Beside him Brian leans forward on the edge of his seat with his hands folded between his knees and his eyes on the floor, silent and lost in thought. Frank's blood is smeared all over his sneakers. It's 2:30am, a time when most people on the tour would normally be going to bed, sleeping off tonight's concert in preparation for tomorrow's, but not anymore. 

Brian called the record company from the parking lot and they've cancelled the rest of The Black Parade Tour until further notice. An official explanation will be prepared for the music press and the fans but Brian knows that it will all be lies. There's no way that the real story of what happened tonight can be allowed to get out - mostly for Frank's protection but also to protect the band's reputation and their legions of fans too. Who knows what might happen if some of the kids who look up to MCR get dangerous ideas in their heads because of what one of their heroes has done? Lying is the only option left.  
Frank's mom has been contacted too, but since she's at home in New Jersey and her son is in a Seattle hospital on the other side of the country, there isn't much she can do until she can catch a plane out sometime tomorrow.  
Meanwhile, Brian and Mikey - and everyone stuck on crew trucks and tour buses throughout the city - are left to wonder whether there will even be a band left after tonight, and whether everyone involved will still be alive when the sun rises. 

By 3am, Brian has gone for more coffee and Mikey is sitting alone with his knees bunched up against his chest and his coat hood hiding his face, shivering with anxiety as his stomach flutters and twists inside him, trying not to cry. Gerard is more than just a big brother to him, he's also his best friend; someone who makes him feel safe and understands his fears and nightmares. He loves Gerard more than anything and he can't handle losing him tonight. Or tomorrow. Or ever - he just can't! And if Frank dies tonight it'll be almost as bad, as painful. Mikey would lose everything he had ever fought for: his and Gerard's dreams, My Chem, a family, a friend, love and a sense of belonging, years of memories... He couldn't survive that, perhaps not even with Alicia by his side. After everything he and Gerard have gone through and survived together – the depression and drugs and darkness - this is just too cruel, too hard. It's not fair!  
Scraping a rough hand across his eyes, Mikey grabs his cup of coffee from the floor and hurls it at the waiting room wall, watching the cold brown liquid explode across the white paint and drip slowly down to the floor.  
Ten minutes later a passing janitor mops up the mess and Mikey has nothing left to throw. 

4am has come and gone before a young female doctor wearing glasses brings Mikey and Brian some news of Gerard. She tells them that he has a fractured wrist, a torn shoulder and a moderate concussion but CT scans have shown that there's no brain damage, and his condition has improved enough for him to be moved up to an Observation Ward if they would like to go and see him. Mikey lets out a long tortured breath of shaky relief and nods gratefully, tears in his dark eyes.  
"What about our friend, Frank Iero?" Brian asks her, getting to his feet on legs that are aching from sitting on plastic chairs for so long.  
"I'm not sure,” the doctor replies, “He isn't one of the patients under my care. But I can go and check on him if you'd like."  
"Please do," Brian says tersely, barely restraining himself from screaming in her face about how long they've been left waiting here scared to death about Frank's condition while no one told them anything. The doctor nods, nudging her glasses further up her nose, and beckons a male nurse over. "This is Malcolm," she says, "He'll take you up to see Gerard. I'm sorry no one has come to talk to you about your other friend. I'll send someone to update you on his condition as soon as possible."  
Brian sighs wearily and opens his mouth to thank her but he's suddenly too tired to form words and the next moment she's already gone. 

They find Gerard two floors up on a dimly-lit, clean-smelling ward with ten other patients. He's asleep in a bed near the door with the sheets pulled up to his chest and his black hair falling over his forehead. His left wrist is encased in plaster from his fingers to a few inches below the elbow and strapped against his chest in a special sling to immobilise his damaged shoulder. The medics have cleaned the blood off his face and he looks peaceful and safe now, although his closed eyes are still puffy from crying. Mikey sits down in a chair that's been left next to the bed and rests his elbows on the soft white bedcovers, leaning forward to watch his brother sleep. Brian stands quietly against the wall behind them and watches Malcolm check equipment around Gerard's bed. "Visiting hours are technically over," the nurse whispers with a conspiratorial smile, "But we can make an exception as long as you're quiet. Take a seat and if any of the other nurses question you just tell them I said it's okay. I'll be back soon to wake Gerard up for a neurological assessment - we can't let concussed patients sleep too long without checking on them."  
"Okay," Brian responds automatically, watching the Way brothers with tired eyes while he worries endlessly about Frank, "Thanks."  
"No problem," Malcolm shrugs, moving down the ward to the next bed.

Giving in to his weariness, Brian sinks heavily into a nearby chair and rests his chin in his hands. Mikey has nestled his face on his folded arms on Gerard's sheets, still wearing his hood, and seems to be drifting off into exhausted sleep. It's so calm and dark and restful on the ward that Brian can't help but want to do the same thing but he can't let go just yet, not until he knows if Frank is going to be alright. 

***  
The long, harrowing night slowly draws to a close and the thunderstorm outside dies away, fading into a chill grey mist. Malcolm and a few other nurses wander silently through the drowsy twilight of the ward, shadowy figures in the dimness, and everything is still and quiet and waiting. Brian settles back in his chair, half-awake in the lull of the pre-dawn hours, and watches over Gerard and Mikey as they escape their fear and trauma in sleep. 

Beyond the hospital walls, birds begin to sing even though it's still dark out and one of the night-time DJs plays a My Chemical Romance song on the radio. 

At long last a grey-haired doctor in a white coat enters the ward and ominously beckons Brian out into the corridor. Stretching his aching muscles, Brian stands up with a sinking heart and makes sure that Mikey's still asleep before following the doctor outside and down the bright, sterile hallway.  
"Brian Schechter?" the doctor asks him formally when they are a good distance from the ward. "Yes," Brian gulps, bracing himself for bad news, "Have you come to talk to me about Frank?"  
"I have. My name is Doctor Stevens. I'm one of the Attending Physicians down in the ER and I wanted to apologise for the delays you've suffered tonight, we've been very busy and unfortunately the friends of patients sometimes get lost in the system."  
"Fine, whatever. Just, please, tell me what's going on. Is Frank...is he still alive? Is he going to be alright?"  
"He's alive," Dr. Stevens says, frowning slightly at Brian's blood-stained clothes, "But as for whether he'll be 'alright' again after this, I honestly don't know. Since you are apparently legally responsible for him in the absence of any family, I'll be blunt with you, Mr Schechter. At some point tonight, Frank tried to kill himself and he very nearly succeeded. We had to flood his digestive tract with charcoal and pump his stomach. His heart, lungs and liver were badly compromised by the amount of drugs he took and he's very lucky that he didn't give himself organ failure. We've also had to give him a blood transfusion, intravenous fluids, sodium, and oxygen and he's currently intubated because he can't breathe properly by himself right now." Dr. Stevens pauses for a moment, his face grim, before continuing, "I'm sorry to have to tell you this but there's also a chance that the seizures Frank suffered as a result of his overdose have caused some permanent brain damage. We won't know for sure until he regains consciousness but you should prepare yourself for the possibility."  
"Oh my god," Brian whispers in horror, sinking against the wall as his legs go weak with shock, his mind reeling. 

"Brian?" Mikey interrupts, appearing in the corridor behind them, "What's going on? Is Frank...?"  
"He's alive," Brian says quickly, standing up straight and trying to mask his distress.  
"Yes," Dr. Stevens adds softly, "But as I said before, he hasn't yet regained consciousness. At the moment we're doing all we can to keep him comfortable and bring his body chemistry back to normal so we can move him to the Intensive Care Unit but_"  
"Can we see him?" Brian begs, "Please can we see him now?"  
"Briefly. He's still downstairs in the ER at the moment so if you'd like to come with me, I'll take you to him."  
"Thanks. Mikey, are you coming?"  
"I don't know," Mikey hesitates, chewing on his lip and looking anxiously back at the ward, "I don't want to leave Gerard."  
"Gerard's resting right now," Brian says gently, "Even when the nurses wake him up to test him he'll be too sleepy to talk to you."  
"I know," Mikey sniffles, tears shining in his tired eyes again, "But I don't want him to be alone in here, Brian. He doesn't like hospitals and there's so many needles here - the doctors put them in his hands and everything - and he hates needles! He'll be scared when he wakes up and_"  
"Okay, that's fine. Calm down," Brian says soothingly, not wanting Mikey more upset tonight, "You stay here with Gerard then and I'll go and see Frankie and that way we can keep an eye on both of them, can't we."  
"I guess so," Mikey whispers, wiping his eyes on his hood.  
"Will you be okay up here on your own?" Brian adds seriously, "I mean it, Mikey, are you feeling able to deal with this right now?"  
Mikey nods uncertainly, his eyes heavy and worried, “Yeah. But there's...I don't..."  
"What's wrong? Tell me."

"I missed taking some of my medication today," Mikey confesses, "And then I forgot to catch up because we were looking for Frankie and then he swallowed most of it himself..."  
"Oh, I see," Brian says calmly, "Well, are you feeling alright? Do you need any of it now?"  
"I'm not sure. I feel kinda sick... and weird. I need to talk to someone.”  
"Tell you what," Dr. Stevens interrupts kindly, "Why don't you come downstairs with us and I'll find out where they've put the medication bottles that the paramedics brought in. Or perhaps we can arrange for a psychiatric nurse to come and talk to you about what you need, okay?"  
Mikey nods doubtfully, obviously still upset about leaving his brother alone, "Yeah, okay...Thanks."

Dr. Stevens leads Brian and Mikey down to an ER Trauma Room: an enclosed dark green space with tiled walls and three glass-panelled doors. There are trolleys filled with gloves, gowns, defibrillators, crash kits and screens lined up against the walls and the hard white floor is smeared with blood around the single bed where Frank is lying unconscious under a mass of bandages and plastic tubes. The lighting in here has been dimmed a little and the hollow air is silent except for the rhythmic beeping of the monitors recording Frank's vital signs. A young doctor wearing green scrubs is sitting near the bed scribbling notes on a clipboard. No one else is here.

Bracing himself, Brian walks slowly towards Frank's body, vaguely aware that Mikey and Dr Stevens are right behind him, and stops beside the bed, laying his hands gingerly on the metal rail running down its side. Frank's face is partially obscured by the breathing tubes coming out of his throat but under the thick plastic he's barely recognisable. His sleeping face is as white as paper under his damp, matted hair and there are dark circles that look more like bruises under his closed eyes and charcoal stains around his mouth. Thick white bandages cover his bare arms and wrists and there's gauze taped to his chest under the hospital gown clothing his skinny body beneath a thick grey blanket. He looks completely drained and used up. He doesn't look alive anymore, no matter what the doctors say, and Brian can't remember the last time he felt so scared.

***  
The next day is a disorienting whirl of tearful phone calls and anxious visitors. Bob, Ray and Alicia turn up at the hospital just after 8am, bringing coffee and clean clothes for Mikey and Brian who have fallen asleep next to Frank's new bed in the I.C.U. Alicia gently wakes Mikey with a kiss and takes him outside for a long walk to clear his head and talk him through the stress of last night as best she can. 

After visiting Gerard again Brian wanders outside too, cradling his coffee against the chilly grey daylight, and sits down on a bench to take a dozen phone calls from the record company. Stacey Fass - the band's lawyer and adopted "mom" - calls him too to offer some support and much-needed advice. 'I'm so sorry you had to deal with this alone,' she tells him sadly, 'How are they doing this morning? Any improvement?'  
"Gerard's awake and doing fine," Brian says, rubbing at his tired eyes, "But his arm's going to take a few weeks to heal. Frank's still unconscious but the doctors say he's breathing on his own now, which is good I guess..." he trails off miserably, staring into his coffee as dark gloomy thoughts cloud up his head.  
'Brian?' Stacey's voice asks worriedly, ‘Brian, talk to me, honey. What's wrong?’  
With an effort, Brian brings himself back to reality and asks Stacey the question that's been burning inside him all night that he's been too scared to ask: "What if Frank doesn't get better, Stace? What if he never wakes up?"


	7. Chapter 7

When it gets too cold to stay outside, Brian walks despondently indoors and finds Bob sitting waiting for him in the hospital lobby. The drummer is wearing a winter coat and beanie cap and playing distractedly with a cigarette lighter, turning it over and over in his hands. "Hey," Brian says quietly, sitting down beside him, "Are you okay?"  
"I should be asking you that," Bob says with a sad smile.  
"I'm hanging in there. Where's Ray?"  
"With Frankie. Mikey and Alicia are still out and I think Gerard's sleeping. I was looking for you, your cell was busy."  
"Oh, yeah I was talking to Stacey. What's up?"  
Bob is silent for a moment, sucking thoughtfully on his lip ring. "Well, Worm's been surfing the net," he starts slowly, "And he called me just now to say that there's something happening in the fan community we should know about."  
Brian sighs heavily, "Uh oh. Is it bad?"  
Bob nods, "Kind of yeah. The daughters of the guy who runs the arena where we played last night are My Chem fans and they were there in his office, top floor, big windows, sheltering from the storm while their dad took care of business after the show. They saw the whole thing with Frank on the bus and posted it online this morning."  
"Holy fuck,” Brian groans, "Oh man..."  
"It gets worse," Bob sighs, "Other fans saw what these girls posted and passed it on to the official forums where kids have started putting two and two together. Pictures taken on camera phones of Frankie onstage with blood on his guitar or his sleeves have appeared out of nowhere and the story's fucking everywhere now. Fans are posting on our MySpace and all the music mag sites trying to get information on Frank. Some of them are panicking, saying he's dead, and the press are lapping it up. Now with the announcement of the tour being cancelled...Dude, I think it's just made things worse."  
"Fuck!"  
"I know."

Brian's cell phone rings in his pocket and he snatches it up and answers. It's a journalist from a music magazine, one of the big ones, and he hangs up on them before they can finish their first sentence. "This is bad," he whispers, gazing seriously at Bob.  
The drummer raises his blonde eyebrows and nods. "Told you," he sighs, thumbing the switch on his lighter and watching the tiny flame flicker and die.  
Glaring angrily at his phone, Brian sinks back in his chair and waits for the damn thing to ring again with more bad news but then the sound of heavy boots hitting the lobby floor grabs his attention as Ray comes rushing up to him and Bob. "Guys, you've gotta come back upstairs," the guitarist cries, "Frank's awake!"

But as soon as Frank regains consciousness, his friends are banned from seeing him or even going near his room. The doctors declare that he's in a very vulnerable and fragile state of mind and until the true reasons for his overdose are revealed only family members can visit him.  
"But we are his family!" Ray protests, "He means the world to us and we love him."  
"Please, please let us see him," Brian begs the Chief Physician on the ward, "You let us while he was asleep, why is it different now? We just want to see if he's okay."  
"He's doing better than we thought," the Chief admits, "And I can tell you there's no sign of brain damage which is obviously good news, but until we know what may or may not upset him at this delicate stage, we can't allow you to see him. I'm sorry."  
"But we're not going to upset him!" Brian cries.  
"You don't know that for sure," the Chief points out patiently.  
"But Frank's parents can't be here until tonight," Bob adds quietly, "And he doesn't have any relatives in Seattle."  
"I'm sorry, but the rules stand. If Frank tells us personally and without being prompted that he wants to see you then we might make an exception but not before."

So Ray, Bob and Brian are forced to wait outside the ward in a corridor near the elevators, separated from Frank by walls and regulations. A nurse at the front desk keeps an eye on them to make sure they don't move while doctors and psychiatrists hustle in and out of Frank's room to treat him, assess him, medicate him and decide whether or not he's still a danger to himself. The clock ticks on and outside the wintry daylight drains away.  
"This is bullshit," Ray mutters, glaring at the latest doctor to walk past them, "Frank shouldn't be locked up alone with all these strangers after what he's been through. He needs people around him who know him and care about him, who REALLY care."  
"Rules are rules," Brian sighs, "We don't have a choice and maybe the doctor's right, Ray, maybe Frank doesn't want to see us after last night. Some of the stuff he was saying on the bus, god you should have heard him. I mean, yeah, he was wasted but what he was saying - the parts that made sense anyway - were so...I dunno, it was like he really couldn't take anything or anyone anymore without it killing him. He's been hurting for a long time and none of us realized how much until this happened. Looking back we kinda treated him like an addict or criminal when we found out he was cutting didn't we. What the fuck were we even trying to do?"

***  
After a while Mikey returns from his walk alone and finds everyone except Gerard sitting in a state of melancholy misery outside the ward. Tired and under-medicated, he immediately assumes Frank is dead and Brian has to calm him down and go in search of a pharmacist to dispense his new medication. Bob and Ray stay by the elevators drinking filtered coffee and trying to peer through cracks in the blinds covering the I.C.U. windows but they can't see anything. When Mikey's feeling better he goes to see Gerard and the others continue their wait.  
In the afternoon Worm drops by with junk food from the vending machines. "I could probably sneak you in some beers too if you like," he jokes, trying to lighten the mood. "Another few hours of waiting and I might take you up on that," Ray sighs.

The day drags on and medical staff wander back and forth, back and forth, an army of white coats and scrubs. Brian lies down across some of the chairs and falls asleep, exhausted, and a few of the nurses try and get Frank's friends to move along and "go home", telling them that he's resting and in no shape to see anybody anyway, but Bob and Ray refuse to move until they give up. Bob curls up with a magazine and listens to his ipod while Ray finds his bored mind wandering back to the months he and the rest of the band spent in the Paramour Mansion recording 'The Black Parade' album. It was a difficult, pressured time for everyone and they had suffered through arguments, depression, nightmares and Mikey having to leave for a while and move in with Stacey because he was getting suicidal. But it was also a time of change and revelations and a new start and My Chemical Romance had emerged from Paramour stronger and closer in their friendship than they'd ever been before. Despite a few ups and downs, things had been going pretty great ever since. Or had they?

'When did everything go wrong for Frankie?' Ray wonders gloomily, 'How long has he been like this? Since his girl split? Since Paramour? Since before then? Hiding all that hurt behind sleeves and a fake smile...' How can anyone act like nothing is wrong for so long when they're dying inside?

***  
As evening approaches and carts loaded with gross-looking hospital dinners trundle down the hallways, Brian wakes up and goes outside to check his phone messages and Mikey finally returns, bringing his brother with him. Gerard is sitting in a borrowed wheelchair that the nursing staff forced upon him, dressed in pyjama pants and a blue zip-up hoodie with the left sleeve cut off to accommodate his sling. His hair is a mess of tangled black spikes and he's been scribbling comic book doodles all over the cast on his wrist with markers. He also looks very unhappy which is not surprising given the circumstances.  
"Hi, Gee. How are you feeling?" Ray asks.  
Gerard shrugs with his good shoulder. "Better, I guess. How's Frankie? Do you know anything new?"  
"One of the docs said he's been sleeping all day," Bob yawns, pulling his beanie down over his forehead, "But I think that's a lie cos last we heard from the nurses he was being evaluated by someone from the mental health department to see whether he should be, uh, y'know..."  
"Committed," Ray finishes softly.  
"Oh," Gerard whispers, looking down at the floor, "I see."  
"Does anybody want some coffee?" Mikey asks, breaking the awkward silence.  
"Always," Ray answers quickly.  
"Cool, I'll go get some real stuff from a coffee house, not this hospital crap. Are you okay here, Gee?"  
"I'm fine, go," Gerard sighs but then the ward Chief appears in front of them looking ready to talk and Mikey stays put.  
"Frank is asking for one of you," the doctor says hesitantly, his expression grave, "Which one of you is Gerard?"  
"I am," Gerard answers in hopeful surprise, looking up and meeting the doctor's solemn gaze, "Frank wants to talk to me?"  
"Yes, but just you. No one else."

Frank is sitting up in bed on a pile of crumpled pillows with one of his bandaged arms hooked up to an I.V drip and his hair falling into his eyes and sticking in damp strands to his pale unshaven cheeks. He looks so small and miserable that it hurts Gerard to look at him as he tiptoes quietly into the room - leaving the pointless wheelchair in the corridor. Frank's eyes flicker up to his friend and a glimmer of relief appears in his exhausted face which quickly disappears when he notices Gerard's plastered arm. "Oh god," he whispers hoarsely, "Did I do that to you?"  
"No," Gerard blurts, automatically trying to spare Frank's feelings, "Not exactly. You had an accident where you kind of fell and I got in the way but it doesn't matter now, Frankie. It's not as bad as it looks, really. It's nothing."  
"Nothing?" Frank asks shakily, chewing on his lower lip.  
"Yeah," Gerard reassures him softly, walking closer to the bed and putting his hand gently on Frank's shoulder, "I'm fine. It's you that's got everybody worried right now. Are you feeling any better?"  
"Not really," Frank mutters, running a trembling hand over his eyes, "I feel like I'm gonna puke my guts out and everything hurts cos they turned off the morphine or whatever so I'm more awake. I can't taste right and my ears are ringing like crazy, and shit Gee, they said I've got some nerve damage in my left hand from cutting up my wrist and they don't know if it'll go away!" His voice cracks and breaks on the last few words and he shakes his head, nearly in tears.  
"Frankie..." Gerard whispers, a lump rising hot in his throat.  
"I'm sorry," Frank sobs, looking up in desperation, "I'm so sorry for all of this, for what I did and w-what I said to you and Brian. I'm so fucking sorry! Can you forgive me? I really need to hear you say you forgive me."  
"Well yeah of course I do but there's nothing to forgive, Frankie. You were in pain and I'm the one who should be sorry cos I didn't notice and I didn't do more to help you. It should be all of us who are apologising to you."  
"No! Fuck, I'm so stupid," Frank cries, angrily wiping his eyes, "This was all so fucking stupid and pointless and now I've screwed everything up! Everything inside of me and everything we've worked for, and all this-"  
"Frank, stop it! Your life and your happiness are the top priority now, nothing else."  
"But the band-"  
"Fuck the band! Fuck the tour, fuck all of it! It's not worth anything if it means losing you!"

The words ring loudly in the static air and Frank sniffles and curls up on his side with his face buried in the sheets. Gerard stands there helplessly staring at him, upset and cold in his pyjamas, not knowing what to do or how to make things better.

It's in this painful moment that a doctor appears in the doorway and scowls irritably at Gerard. "I heard raised voices," he says accusingly, "Perhaps you should leave your friend alone now. He's not strong enough to cope with any stress at the moment."  
"I don't want Gerard to leave," Frank mumbles from under the covers.  
"Sir, as your doctor I have your best interests at heart and I really think that you should be resting right now-"  
"I don't want him to leave!" Frank yells, sitting up and glaring daggers at the doctor, "It's you I want to get the fuck out!"  
"Well I don't think-"  
"Get out!"  
Frowning, the doctor turns back to Gerard, "Five more minutes," he warns sternly as he finally exits the room, leaving the door wide open behind him.

"Fuck," Frank groans miserably, "I can't deal with being in here, Gee. I want to go home."  
Gerard nods, thinking about their parents back in New Jersey. The idea of home is always a comfort whenever he feels sick or sad while on tour. It's somewhere safe and loving and familiar and what he wouldn't give for a hug from his mom or dad right now. "Me too," he whispers.  
Frank sighs heavily and lies down flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. For the first time Gerard notices that he's wearing a red rubber band around one of his hands like a bracelet and he asks about it to fill the silence. "What's that for?"  
Frank glances down and his lips curve into the ghost of a smile. "One of the psychiatric guys gave it to me for when I want to cut. It's a way of hurting myself without actually doing any real damage." To demonstrate this he tugs hard on the band and snaps it sharply against the back of his hand, not even blinking as it lashes his skin red.  
"Is it helping?" Gerard asks softly.  
"Not really," Frank sighs, closing his tired eyes on the world, "But it's something I guess."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \---------------- (Lovely readers, this is the last chapter. It was always going to end this way and I hope you understand and like it. Let me know what you think. I will always be writing other stories... xo) -------------------

The next day, when Frank is detoxed and his head is clearer, he's moved to the Psychiatric Ward where a kind-faced therapist comes to talk to him about what he was feeling on the bus that night and how he feels about it now. At first he doesn’t know how to explain how he feels because it's all too heavy and too complicated to describe and he doesn’t have the energy to try. There’s a lot he can't remember about what happened that night too because the memories were drowned in pills and alcohol.

But he does remember the fear. How he was five minutes from death, cold and shaking and watching a black cloud coming to drag him down into the dark where he would be alone and nothing and no one forever and ever and he had never been so terrified. Fading fast, he'd tried desperately to hold on to something - his friends, his heartbeat - but it was all slipping away from him and he couldn’t hold on, he couldn't stop falling, shivering, bleeding, dying!  
He didn’t want to go into the dark, he wanted to stay, and he remembers begging Gerard to save him and not let him go. “Please, don’t let me die...!”  
Then Gerard’s arms were around him and the darkness swallowed him whole and everything fell away.

When he awoke in the hospital he still thought he was dying and it was almost worse than the bus. There was a plastic tube in his throat that stopped him talking and his hands and face were numb but chills of fire ran up and down his sliced-up arms. He couldn’t hear properly above a constant ringing in his ears and he felt sick and empty and still so scared. 

A doctor pulled the tube out of his mouth, making him gag, and tried to explain what was going on but he couldn’t believe he wasn't dead after what he’d done. He didn't feel like he deserved to be alive. Hours passed before he could break free of this state of shock and when he did the stressful weight in his chest and the screams in his head came back and he wanted to burst into tears he felt so terrible and helpless but he couldn't, he just trembled and ached. The intensive care doctors were happy they had saved his life but it wasn't their job to fix his mind too so after testing his blood and "calming him down" with Valium, they brought in a psychiatrist to assess his state of mind. Following a long series of probing questions, the shrink made a diagnosis: Frank was suffering from chronic depression and severe anxiety, leading to episodic self-harm, panic attacks and attempted suicide. The suggested treatment was a transfer to the Psych Ward where he could be observed and medicated.

Too upset to argue but also a little glad that someone else was going to be making all the decisions for him for a while, Frank buried his face in a pillow and refused to answer anymore questions, choking back tears as an odd wave of loneliness washed over him. Where were his parents and his friends? None of the doctors really understood what he was feeling and the shrink had ignored him completely when he insisted he hadn’t tried to kill himself. He had just wanted the screaming inside his head to stop for a while. He understood that death seems like an easy answer when you don't want to feel anything but being so close to death on the bus made him realise how fucked up it was to think like that. Death is never an answer, it's just a termination, an ending to everything both bad and good which can never be taken back. It's just pain and more punishment in the end, the loss of a fragile unique life and the loss of any possible better future... And a gain of absolutely jack shit. 

Homesick for a familiar face, Frank begged the doctors to let him see Gerard but the sight of his friend's injured arm made him feel worse and he couldn’t handle seeing any more of his friends that day. 

***  
Now with nothing to do but think and sleep, Frank watches crap TV and snaps rubber bands and chews his nails down to bloody nubs, staring into space as time and doctors sweep past him and the other mentally ill patients. He wants to keep living so he can see an end to all this fucking hurt but he can't imagine how. Fifty stitches stretch and itch under his bandages and remind him of what he's done and he still aches with the need to cry, wishing he was a child again, innocent and unmarked by time and pain.

In the afternoon, Frank's mom arrives from New Jersey and asks the doctors if she can take her son home. When she appears in his doorway Frank is afraid she's gonna be angry with him for nearly throwing his life away but although she's shocked, she shows him nothing but love and tenderness and he's so overwhelmed with it that he finally starts to cry. Not just a few drunken tears this time but huge, cleansing, gut-wrenching, body-shaking sobbing tears about how fucked up and shitty he's felt for so damn long. His mind can't bear to hold onto all that pain any longer and instead of letting it kill him he's finally able to let some of it go. What he's been through over the last few weeks is horrific but he's survived and he's still loved despite all the bad things he’s done to himself and that’s more of a relief than the cutting ever gave him.

He cries like this for a long time, shedding months of loneliness and hurt, and his mom sits on the bed and wraps him in her arms, stroking his hair and rocking him gently like a child. He cries until he’s almost choking on snot and tears and the constant exhausting weight of screams that he's carried inside for so long starts dissolving in the flood. Slowly, very very slowly, he starts to feel like he might be alright again one day even though it's so hard right now because he's finally able to breathe and weep again and this proves that he isn't broken after all. He's only wounded, and wounds can heal. Scars can fade.  
Right?

Afraid of the future, Frank clings to the present and his mother's arms and cries himself to sleep.

***  
The next day Gerard comes to visit bringing Frank's favorite soda and some Gameboys, and Bob, Ray, Mikey and Brian sneak in later one by one when Frank is ready to see them. 

Each of them tries to apologise for not helping Frank as much as they could have but Frank shrugs it off and with nothing to lose now and no secrets left to hide he finally drops every last shred of his happy mask and tries to explain to his friends exactly what he's been going through lately, talking honestly about his anxiety and stress and fear and isolation. It's one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do but he makes himself do it all the same and to his surprise each of his friends is very sympathetic and understanding and everyonebseems to have a story about their own anxieties and methods of self-destruction that altogether make a picture of life experiences very similar to his own.

Gerard quietly reminisces about the ups and downs of his own long-standing problems with depression and addiction and tells Frank that he knows what it's like to be lost in a nightmare and to feel so detached from the world and so hollowed out by your own experiences that you think no one else could ever understand you, but the thing is you'll never know unless you unburden yourself to someone you trust and let them help. “I've been pulled out of several downward spirals in my time, Frankie,” he says, smiling and sad at the same time, “And you can overcome this thing too, I know you can. You already are." 

***  
A week later everyone is back home in New Jersey to hang out with family for a while and reconnect with normal life off the tour and away from The Black Parade. The weather is chilly but bright with sunshine and Frank and Gerard begin a new daily ritual of wandering slowly around a local park together, sipping coffee and talking about nothing in particular. 

"So, I've kind of started writing songs again,” Frank admits one day when the two friends are sitting together on an ancient mossy picnic table under the trees, “Pretty intense stuff. Things that come to me when I'm down. It helps to get it all out on paper...” he pauses for a moment and smiles, “It's sort of screamo and sort of punk. I like that it came from me.”  
“Dude that's awesome,” Gerard grins, setting his coffee down, “Are you gonna record anything or just write for now?”  
“Maybe a short record yeah. It would be some hardcore shit though, not for MCR. Just for me. I've been throwing ideas around in my head at night. D'you think Leathermouth is a good band name?”  
“Haha yeah, you kinky fucker.”  
Both guys laugh for a minute and when they stop Gerard murmurs, “Dude I haven't heard you laugh like that for a long time.”  
“Yeah? I forgot what it felt like,” Frank sighs, lying down across the old wooden table on his back and looking up at the blue sky and smoky clouds. Gerard waits a moment and then lies down beside him, their legs hanging side by side. “You're not in this alone kid,” he says softly, “But if you need some space for a while then we'll give it to you, anything you need we'll give it to you. And y'know if you want to talk or vent about something, or if you need some distraction from destructive urges and feel stuck in your head, I'm always down the street or on the end of the phone, anytime.”  
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”  
“Whatever happens...I hope you'll come to one of us or to another friend or your mom or I dunno even a helpline if you get so low you want to hurt yourself badly again. I couldn't stand to lose you, Frankie, none of us could. Even if no one on earth was smart enough to care about you, you'd still be too much of an awesome person to throw it all away. Everyone has the right to find some peace of mind in this fucked up life and that includes you."

Frank nods slowly but doesn't say anything, gazing up at the leaves swaying in the trees.  
"I’ll try," he finally whispers, "I’ll really try, Gee. I mean sometimes I think maybe I'm strong enough to stop cutting completely but then... I don‘t know. It's a bad way of coping, I know that. I'm not an idiot. But I’m just not sure I can stop cold turkey yet, y'know? I need... something."  
"I know," Gerard says, "I think you'll get there when you're ready."  
"Yeah well, like I said writing helps a lot, it's like my own personal no-bullshit therapy. I think maybe the Prozac they gave me at the hospital is finally kicking in too.”  
“That's cool. Mikey seems to get a lot out of therapy and meds.”  
“I just want my life back, Gee. I want to play music again and enjoy it. I want to feel like I'm worth something I guess and like I’m not just a big mess."  
“If you’re a mess dude then you're a smart, funny, perfect beautiful mess,” Gerard smiles, poking Frank in the ribs with his elbow.  
Frank snorts with laughter but then his face falls again. “I just wish I didn't have to stop touring. I know I need to, to clear my head and chill out, but I'll miss it.”  
“Eh, the tour's cancelled until my arm's better anyway,” Gerard shrugs, taking two cigarettes from a pack in his jacket and lighting them both before handing one to Frank, “And we can reschedule any missed dates for next year. The real fans will understand.”  
“I guess they will,” Frank admits, blowing smoke rings into the sky.  
“Life gets tougher than we can handle sometimes,” Gerard muses, watching a flock of birds flying far up above them, “But we try and deal with it and sometimes we fall down for a while but eventually we work it through and make up for the time we lost.”  
“Mmm.”  
“And we're still young, man, you're practically still a kid! You've got plenty of time.”  
Frank nods gratefully and rests his head against Gerard's shoulder, breathing in tobacco and the calming cool breeze and closing his eyes, "I guess I do. Thanks Gee.”  
"Anytime. I can be very damn wise when I want to be.” Frank snickers and sits up and Gerard looks at him affectionately as the sun starts to set. “You‘re gonna be okay, Frankie."  
“Fingers crossed, right? We'll see. You wanna grab some pizza?”  
“You bet.”

******************************************************************************************************  
THE END.

"I know what it's like to want to die. How it hurts to smile. How you try to fit in but you can't. How you hurt yourself on the outside to try and kill the thing on the inside."  
\- Susannah Kaysen, 'Girl, Interrupted.'

‘You’re not in this alone.’  
\- My Chemical Romance


End file.
